The Binding of Souls
by EmeraldDraegon
Summary: Running away from an abusive fiancé, Jacqueline finds herself joining the cast of the Opera Populaire. She tries to hide here among the make-up and masks, but can she really hide from her past? And when a Phantom she doesn't believe in saves her life, she must question his actions. Is he truly a monster? No hating on either Christine or Raoul in this story! Follows movie storyline.
1. Part Un

**DISCLAIMER: I'm only going to say this once; it applies to ALL the following chapters! This story is a work of FAN fiction! I do not claim ownership over any setting, lyrics, or characters in this story, save Jacqueline Devoreaux who is my own creation. Neither she nor this story can be ascribed to the original canon.**

A lone bird abruptly ceased its melancholy song from the bare branches of the tree as I passed beneath; the frozen ground and dead leaves crunched beneath my feet. I crossed the otherwise silent plot of land and all but collapsed onto my knees in front of my grandfather's tombstone. For a long moment I remained quiet, doing nothing except staring at the cold gray stone.

"It's me again, Grand-père," I whispered. "Not much has changed since a few nights ago…" I shifted and I felt the weight of my cloak pressing against the newly acquired laceration that crossed my back. I grimaced then did my best to ignore it. No need to worry my grandfather's spirit with _that_.

"I still miss you," I continued. "I still wish… I wish you were here again. I feel so… just so lonely without you."

I squeezed my eyes shut tight, as if that would block the melody that had suddenly popped into my head. Even though I tried to stop the music, it somehow always found its way back into my mind. Now it was there… It would not leave easily. I didn't want it there. A tune in my head was certain to come out on my tongue. And a song on my tongue was dangerous.

Unless I let it out now.

Set it free from my mind, to my tongue, flying into the silent world around me. A world where no one saw me, no one touched me, and no one heard me; a refuge; a safe haven of solitude.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. Safe haven. Safe.

I could not take the song home with me. It would be dangerous. But here, in the cemetery, I decided I was safe and softly I began to sing:

 _No one would listen  
No one but you  
Heard as the one who cares_

 _Shamed into solitude  
Beat into servitude  
I learned "Keep silent"  
So afraid to hear the music  
_  
 _I long to sing my song  
Not feel I'm doing wrong  
He would not listen  
I alone suffered in darkness_

 _Then at last a voice in the gloom_  
 _Seemed to cry 'I hear you  
I hear your fears  
Your torment and your tears'_

 _You saw his wickedness  
Shared in my helplessness  
No one would listen  
No one but you  
Heard as the one who cares  
_  
 _No one would listen  
No one but you  
Heard as the one who cares_

The last line barely made it past my lips before my throat clamped shut. I could feel tears building up, but I held them back. I am not sure why I did. Perhaps I was tired of crying.

"You have a lovely voice," a stranger's voice called out. A few graves over stood a woman dressed in black. It was hard to determine her age, but I felt she must have been about the same age as my mother would have been.

"Thank you," I managed to choke out. "I am glad someone was able to hear it and appreciate it, for it is likely that it is the last I shall ever sing," I replied bitterly.

"Why is that?" she asked in a tone that said she was not one to tolerate self-pity; yet her tone was not unfriendly.

I let out a heavy sigh. "Soon I will be married to a man who cannot abide singing," I explained.

Tears welled up in my eyes then. I didn't want to cry in front of this woman, but no amount of willpower was able to stop the outward display of my inner turmoil. Had my senses not been so well trained to what was around me, I might not have even noticed the woman coming toward me. But I did notice and I was instantly nervous, though I knew I had no reason to be.

My tears doubled as I realized that the one responsible for my pain had not only ruined my trust in him but in everyone else as well. My life was completely ruined if I could trust no one. Even this kind stranger who had wrapped her arm comfortingly around my shoulders.

She held me in that strong and gentle grip until my uncontrollable crying lessened to a manageable sniffle. She waited a moment longer before speaking.

"A voice like that should be heard," she said. "Hiding it would be a shame. A shame, mademoiselle." She gave my shoulders a little shake to emphasize her point. "But with some training it could be a fantastic voice."

I shook my head sadly. "He would never allow it. Not even if it made me the richest, most famous singer in all the world."

I could sense her displeasure in my answer, although she seemed to ignore it, for the next thing she said was, "I know someone who could train you. He would require no payment."

Again, I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Madame. It is not possible."

She bowed her head in reluctant acceptance and rose to her feet.

"If you should change your mind," she said, "you will find me at the opera house."

 _Opera house?_ That certainly got my attention. I looked up at her, blinking out the last of my tears.

"Opera Populaire," she said, with a knowing look.

My thoughts were suddenly frantic and a little confused. Was this woman actually suggesting that I would be trained by someone from the Opera Populaire?! For free? Madness. I did not believe it. It had to be a trick of some sort. Perhaps _he_ had hired her. To test me. I narrowed my eyes at her, but I found no words to say. If he had not sent her, then I did not want to accuse her unjustly.

With a slight smile she turned and walked away, swinging her cane.

The bird tentatively began singing again.

I felt that my sanity was being tested. I stared at my grandfather's tombstone without really seeing it, running over the strange conversation again in my head. It was just as confusing the second time around. After a time, I shook my head to clear it and stood. My knees were sore from kneeling for so long so I bent over to rub them. Standing erect once more, I pulled my cloak tight around me. Taking that first step was the second hardest step (the first hardest being dragging my reluctant feet up the steps to the front door of the house). One would think I had a choice in the matter. But one would be wrong.

There was no other way. This path was my destiny. It wasn't my choice - not exactly - Destiny didn't offer honest choices. Oh, there always seem to be paths to choose from. . . but destiny is always the path you choose. And you were destined to take that path long before you were born. Even if you choose the wrong path, it was your destiny to do so. Not everyone was destined to be blessed with a life of good fortune.

And so with each step I took I felt closer to destiny's wrong path. It wasn't the path I wanted to take, heavens no! But it was the one I had already started down and I couldn't see a way to bow out gracefully; or tell Destiny it made a mistake.

Thankfully, Destiny decided, I did not need to.

I was in trouble.

So I ran. I tried to run away, but there is no running away from memories. I kept seeing the pewter candlestick sailing toward his face, him falling to his knees -silently. At first, I thought I may have killed him. But I didn't wait to find out. Almost as soon as his knees hit the floor, I ran.

I had not intended to run out the front door, but that was where my feet carried me; not even stopping to grab my cloak.

In my adrenaline rush, my feet carried me away faster than my mind was working. I did not even know where I was going, only that I was headed away from him and that I could not let him catch me. If he was still alive.

When I eventually stopped running, I found myself at Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere. I stared down that road as my thoughts and my breath caught up to my body. As I thought about what lay in the direction I was looking, the opera house crossed my mind. The memory of the mysterious woman in the graveyard returned to me. Before I could wonder any more on the subject, I collapsed.

I gave a little yelp as my legs gave way beneath me and I landed on the hard sidewalk. Both legs shook uncontrollably as the adrenaline that once coursed through my body to help me run, betrayed me now. Wrapping my quivering arms around my tremulous legs, I managed to scoot back to lean against a lamp post while I calmed myself.

It's hard to say how long I sat there. It felt like forever, but I stayed until my body stopped its quaking.

With my body recovered from my terror-filled flight and once again under my control, I rose purposefully to my feet.

In the time spent under the orange glow of the lamplight, I had made a decision. Decided that maybe destiny was not as strict as I once imagined. I had chosen the wrong path. Now it seemed Destiny wanted me to take the right path and had very forcefully kicked me in that direction. This time I would accept it. I would go to the opera house and find the woman in black. It had been months since our meeting in the cemetery, but I felt confident her offer still stood.

I would join them. Learn to sing. Perhaps learn to dance. Maybe I would disappear; disappear from those who would be looking for me and remain hidden from them until they had forgotten about me and it was safe for me to show myself again. If such a time would ever come.


	2. Part Deux

It was an odd occurrence; a stranger knocking at the Opera Populaire door and the choreographer opening the doors and accepting the stranger into the ballet corp without question. For this reason, I got many strange looks from the ballerinas and stage hands. Mostly untrusting glances, as if they thought I had somehow used black magic to worm my way into the opera ensemble and would use it on them at any given moment.

I ignored them all.

I didn't care what they thought. They might have known the truth which, to me, would have been worse. A humiliation beyond reckoning. So let them dare to imagine the reason I was there. Lies and rumors did not matter to me. The truth did.

The better part of the truth was that the woman in black (who turned out to be the choreographer, Madame Giry) did remember me from the cemetery. One look at my face and she knew something was wrong, too. She didn't ask questions; just let me in, set me up in a bed, and welcomed me to the opera house.

I was eager to start my singing lessons, but Madame Giry told me she would need to discuss the matter with "an acquaintance" before any arrangements could be made. This made the first few weeks of my stay at the opera house rather sour for me as I waited impatiently for my lessons to begin. But Madame Giry brushed me off every time I brought the subject up. I entertained the idea that she merely needed another ballerina and thought I would suit her needs, though I couldn't imagine why.

I never thought I had the body of a dancer, but after a time practicing under Madame Giry's steady guidance, I did begin to notice my arms and legs appeared more toned and I was starting to resemble the lithe dancers around me.

I admit that dancing was rather freeing. Not as much as singing, but it seemed a very close second. But however enjoyable it was I couldn't forget singing. After months of leaving Madame Giry to work out a deal with her friend on her own, I finally strengthened my resolve to confront her again about my lessons, praying that I would not be turned away this time.

One morning I searched for her backstage (which was a mess of wooden posts and rafters, heavy divider curtains, catwalks, and stairways), but did not find her there. Next I went to the dormitory, where I found her scolding a couple of the younger ballerinas who had taken the liberty of sleeping in. Though it looked like any other backstage room, its gauzy white curtains and all the wrought iron beds covered with white sheets, puffy _duvets,_ and colorful bedspreads added a homey comfort to the room. Sunlight was streaming in through several of the round windows along one wall, setting the room aglow. It was warm and comfortable and I found myself wishing that I had been able to stay in bed, too.

I placed myself in a rather large patch of sunlight, distractedly watching the dust motes swirling into the air at my presence. I was trying to lend a little privacy to the tardy girls' reprimands, but they didn't seem to appreciate the gesture, as I received scowls from them as they rushed past me. Once they had scurried away, Madame Giry turned her attention to me.

"Some girls are not born with the responsibility needed to become a great dancer," she said calmly, eying me. "But most can be taught. With proper discipline."

Something about her words struck a familiar chord in me that made my insides tighten. I had never been afraid of Madame Giry, other than a fear of reprimand for sloppy dancing. But those particular words disarmed my determination as quickly as water doused fire. They reminded me of - of _him_. Despite the knowledge that I was safe here in the opera house, I felt myself begin to sweat. Fingering my skirt nervously, I reminded myself that I was not afraid of Madame Giry. She would not hurt me and yet I found myself warily eyeing her cane. Pushing aside thoughts of the cane connecting with my back, I chided myself for thinking of Madame Giry in such a way. But I only displaced my fear. While I was not scared of her, I found I _was_ afraid my request would be rejected again. That fear made my tongue heavy and unwilling to move. Ashamed and blushing, I stared down at the floor.

"You want to ask me something," she said, while the fear battled me. Frowning, I fidgeted some more and nodded, still ashamed to meet her gaze. "About the singing lessons?"

I nodded again.

I heard her sigh. "I will ask him again. He has been very distracted lately. But I will ask again." I didn't need her to tell me who "he" was. Well, honestly I did. Other than that he was an acquaintance who was a voice teacher, I knew nothing about him. She never said a word about him, never even mentioned his name or where he came from, this mysterious great singing teacher, of whom I was by now certain, did not exist.

Her answer was not a flat rejection, but it still was not the answer I had dared hope for. She must have seen my disappointment and placed her hand on my arm to comfort me. However, she was smart enough to know that words would mean nothing to me at this point and so she said nothing. The only sounds as she walked away were the clacking of her shoes and the scraping of her skirts against the floorboards.

Knowing the only way to forget about my distress was to laugh, I sought out my new friends, Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, and an orphan girl named Christine Daaé. They were nearly the only girls who did not shun me immediately when I had first arrived. They were both sweet and compassionate and utterly in love with being at the Opera Populaire. Their youthful joy and passion were infectious. When I started thinking about my past, going into those dark recesses of my mind, I found solace in Meg's and Christine's companionship.

Meg found me first, hurriedly pulling me into the cramped dressing room and scolding me as though she were my mother, not my friend. I laughed as she dragged me along behind her.

"Relax, Meg!" I said. "I just saw your mother! She knows I'm not in my leotard and she didn't say a thing."

"Nevertheless, she'll be expecting you to be ready," she answered, giving me a stern look. I grinned in reply and accepted her help to get ready.

I was still smiling while she braided my long brown hair and pulled it up into a bun. It was nice to have someone who cared about my well-being. So different from what I had grown used to. _This must be what it feels like to have a mother,_ I thought, watching Meg's serious face in the mirror. My own mother had died when I was very young and I barely remembered her. Maybe my life would have been different if she had lived. I didn't have time to dwell on the thought as Madame Giry came into the room chasing all of us stragglers to the barre for warm-ups.

Soon I was swept away by dance practice, and although my dance-steps were years behind the skills of the others' I felt as if I had accomplished something. The sense of accomplishment came not from anything I did in particular, I was sure, although I imagined that it had. And I couldn't even pinpoint the exact reason for the lightness I suddenly felt. Perhaps it was that I had made friends. Made friends with people who didn't expect me to tell them my dark secrets, lest they be required to share their own. Perhaps it was the feeling I had deep down in my gut that said Madame Giry would succeed in procuring me singing lessons this time. A smile quirked the corner of my mouth. Oh, yes! I felt very surely that I would get those lessons very soon.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

"You haven't even heard her sing yet. All I ask is that you at least listen to her."

He glared across the room at Madame Giry. She was being insanely stubborn about this. How many times had she asked now? It was certainly an odd request. Outlandish. Downright impossible, in fact. Christine had the naïveté to believe he was an angel sent by her deceased father to teach her music. She had been easily deceived and manipulated. But this new girl… how would he teach her? Teach her without her screaming and running the opposite direction? Teach her without her seeing him?

"Just one song," Madame Giry pressed.

"No." He could be stubborn too.

"If you heard her you may change your-"

"No!" he said, louder than he meant to, but offered no apology. "I will not do it."

Madame Giry set her jaw, muscles tightening. They stood in frustrated silence for a minute before Madame Giry spoke again.

"I told her," she said quietly, raising her eyebrows and not exactly meeting his steely gaze, "that if she came to the opera house someone would teach her to sing."

He stared at her, utterly bewildered. She had always kept his secret; always protected him. Why was she doing this now? What was she thinking? Surely she knew the danger that put him in.

Before the rage building within him burst out, Madame Giry hurriedly said, "She has been hurt, too, Erik."

Silence descended upon them again while he thought about her words and the deeper meaning that he knew resided in them.

Finally he stood a little straighter, pulled his cloak tight around himself and sighed.

"One song. Tomorrow night. I make no promises."


	3. Part Trois

The lightness in my heart remained with me the following morning during warm-ups. All the other dancers, aside from Christine and Meg, stood apart from me as they did most every warm-up session. Ignoring their intended slight, I concentrated on my dance moves. Starting with the most basic moves - 5 Positions - and moving on to arabesque and plié, determined to get each one perfect, as Madame Giry had directed.

My practice, however, was interrupted by Madame Giry herself and the theatre owner, Monsieur Lefevre. They were in the middle of what appeared to be a heated discussion, with Madame Giry waving her hands in a helpless gesture. As they passed, the other dancers turned to watch and listened with keen interest. When their heads swiveled in my direction and both Madame Giry and Lefevre had their eyes turned to me, I knew that the discussion had been about me. Whispers started among the ballerinas, without a care to hide it from me.

Christine and Meg halted their own warm-up to watch the exchange, wide-eyed and worried.

Madame Giry and Monsieur Lefevre stopped next to me. At the looks on their faces my insides grew cold.

"Mademoiselle Devoreaux," Monsieur Lefevre said by way of greeting and gave me a curt nod.

"Monsieur Lefevre," I replied. I gave a small stiff curtsy.

He grunted. "Jacqueline, my dear, you are very new to the opera," he said. "And I have allowed you to stay here at the insistence of Madame Giry-" I cast a glance her way, but she was perfectly unreadable "-but you will not be able to stay here forever in this manner."

 _Oh no._ I knew what he was going to say before he said it. It should not have surprised me. It is the way of the corps de ballet. Nevertheless, I had hoped he would overlook it, but of course he could not. Neither he nor Madame Giry could afford to have me staying here without some form of payment. Madame Giry told me I would not need to pay for the singing lessons, but of course she did not tell me that the food, lodging, and dancing would be free. Somehow, she had managed to provide these things for me without arousing suspicions until now. I was very grateful to her for that.

"You, I think, know what is required of you," he continued. He paused to give me a questioning look at which I nodded.

"An _abonné,_ " I murmured.

"Yes," he replied. "Without a sponsor to back you… I'm sorry, mademoiselle. There are plenty of other girls who would be very willing to take your place." He looked me up and down and I felt myself blush under his scrutiny. "You shouldn't have trouble finding an _abonné._ You are a very attractive girl."

My cheeks were nearly on fire I was blushing so furiously, but I nodded dutifully.

"There shall be plenty of men looking for a pretty ballerina to spend some time with them at the gala tomorrow," he plowed on, ignoring my obviously embarrassed silence. "I suggest you use the time wisely."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Good. And good luck, Mademoiselle Devoreaux," he said, his tone softening. I glanced up at him to see his expression was sympathetic.

"Thank you, Monsieur Lefevre."

He left me standing in distraught silence with Madame Giry. After a moment, she placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me an apologetic look.

"You knew this was to be expected of you, _non?_ " Madame Giry asked.

"Yes, I knew," I said.

Her heavy sigh came out in a burst of air. "I am sorry, Jacqueline. I had rather hoped to secure you a different type of sponsor." Madame Giry glanced in Lefevre's direction, then looked back at me.

Confused at her statement, I frowned up into her green eyes and I saw in them sorrow and hope warring. Deep inside she truly was sorry. But she still held onto hope… Hope for what? And what other kind of sponsor was there?

With a cautious glance at the other ballerinas, who had mostly returned to their practice before she could yell at them, Madame Giry used her hand on my shoulder to guide us away from the gossiping dancers who hid their wicked smiles and the beginnings of rumors behind long-fingered white hands.

"I need to tell you something," she said releasing my shoulder. She gestured that I should continue following her.

A nervous fluttering began in my stomach, only I had no idea why. Why should I be nervous? A hundred and one terrifying reasons raced through my mind, the most frightening one prevailing above all others. The thought that Benoit had finally found me after all this time and had come to take me home.

I found it suddenly hard to breathe and my steps faltered, making me stumble. My brain numbly registered laughter erupting from a cluster of the girls behind me. Just as numbly I wondered if they were laughing at me.

Keeping my eyes focused on Madame Giry's black dress, I followed her out of the back room and into the hallway a short distance where she stopped. As she turned to me in the dimly lit hallway, I saw my fears were superfluous. I could see the carefully concealed excitement underneath the well-collected mask; her eyes sparkled and the way she pursed her lips together made the corners of her mouth turn upward instead of down. My nervousness died, immediately replaced by curiosity.

Then Madame Giry spoke.

"He wants to hear you sing." A simple drop of words with all the force of a flood.

I blinked at her. It was the last thing I expected her to say.

"Tonight," she continued. "I needed to tell you now so that you would have time to prepare a song. I will meet you on the stage at ten o'clock."

I admit, I didn't process the information very well and remained blinking at her. She raised her eyebrows at me as if expecting an answer and the gesture brought me out of my surprised stupor.

"I- But- I…" I started unsuccessfully. Pausing to take a deep breath, I tried collecting my thoughts before I spoke. "He'll be here tonight?"

"Yes, he'll be here," she said, smiling at me.

I smiled back at her as the realization sunk in. "I do not suppose that this excuses me from practice today?" I teased.

She gave me a stern look, cocking her head a little. For her benefit I tried to hide my silly grin, but did not entirely succeed. Giving a small curtsy, I hurried back to the barre, with my silly grin spreading again.

/

Though the sleeping quarters were dark that night, it was hardly filled with sleeping girls. It hummed with whispered conversations. The gala was tomorrow night and as the time grew closer everyone seemed a little more tense. Alongside the mounting tension ran excitement; an excitement that was catching. And I had caught it too.

Christine and I huddled under a gray woollen blanket at the end of Meg's bed, in the dark; one of only two cliques of girls that were brave enough, or stupid enough, to sit up after lights-out chatting. I couldn't imagine what kind of punishment Madame Giry would exact upon us if she caught us. Perhaps she expected us to be too excited to sleep and so would do nothing. It didn't matter. I could not have cared in the least. It didn't really matter in my case anyway, as I was going to meet the voice coach tonight. I was in a carefree joyful mood and my friends, though less ebullient, were excited as well.

"I think you are going to love it," Meg said. "It's so thrilling to be up on that stage with everyone watching you!"

"But what if I trip?" I asked, finding myself suddenly worried.

Meg and Christine laughed.

"Oh, you can't possibly be as bad as Linette Chambon," Meg said, smiling ear-to-ear. I felt their infectious mirth tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Who is Linette Chambon?" I asked cautiously.

"Oh, that poor girl," said Christine, looking to Meg who tried to stifle a burst of laughter with her hand. Christine continued, her dark eyes intense, "About two years ago she came to study here, to be a dancer. But she was so clumsy it was almost impossible for Madame Giry to teach her anything."

"Once, we were practicing for _La Fille Du Pharaon_ and she spun completely off the stage!" Meg was laughing so hard she had tears rolling down her face.

Christine and I laughed, too; her at the memory and me at the absurdity of it. They regaled me with some more stories of the unfortunate Linette until I knew it was time for me to head down to the auditorium.

"I suppose I'd better try to get a good rest in before morning," I told them.

"I suppose you're right," whispered Christine, removing the blanket from around her shoulders and rising.

"I am a bit thirsty too. I think I'll see if I can find something to drink before I go to sleep," I lied, hoping they would think nothing of it when they saw me heading downstairs. "Good night!"

They said their goodnights and I grabbed a candlestick from a nearby nightstand. I tightened the frilly white robe I wore and made toward the staircase.

/

The auditorium was completely dark. Only a few of the stage lamps were lit. That seemed strange considering we were to have someone watching me. It gave me pause at the edge of the stage, but when I saw Madame Giry was already on the stage I summoned my courage and walked out to meet her.

She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, watching as I approached. In her black dress she blended into the darkness and she seemed comfortable with that, as though she and the darkness were best friends. I felt slightly uneasy at the thought, but brushed it away. There was nothing dark about Madame Giry.

"He is ready whenever you are," she said quietly.

I looked out at the blackness of the auditorium beyond the stage lights. Was she mad? He couldn't be here yet. There had been no introduction. And there was no sound indicating that there was anyone else there other than the two of us. And whoever this man was, surely he had no desire to sit in a blackened theatre. That was when I had a startling revelation: Madame Giry was quite insane. There really wasn't a teacher. She had made it all up and was crazy enough to think that I would believe her. And what happened after this when I asked whether he would take me on as a student? She would tell me I had been rejected, I supposed.

I stared out at the dark, where I knew were empty, plush, red seats and gilded balconies, and forced down the surging despair welling up inside me. Telling myself not to cry, I took a step closer to the edge of the stage, mostly to hide the disappointment on my face from Madame Giry.

I had chosen a song that would show off the range of my voice, and one that had always been a favorite of mine. I had practiced it whenever I had a moment during the day and when the girls questioned my sudden singing binge I merely told them that it was stuck in my head and the only way to free it was to let it out, which was not a complete lie. Deciding it was better to go along with Madame Giry's little game, I drew a deep steadying breath in and set my resolve.

Looking up to the giant chandelier above the seating I released my song, singing to the void and whoever could have been listening. Perhaps Monsieur Buquet up on one of the catwalks, but, I highly doubted, a magnificent voice coach in the auditorium.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Thank you all for showing such interest in my story and all the lovely comments! Unfortunately for you, the next post may be delayed because I will be on vacation! If time and wifi allow, I may be able to post as usual, but figured I'd better make you all aware of potential delays. Until next time, behave! :)**


	4. Part Quatre

By the time I entered the dressing room the next day, my nerves were completely shattered. I was surrounded by lies and secrets and I knew I would eventually get caught in them and strangle myself. But I could not tell anyone; I didn't want to. It was the reason for all the lies in the first place. I was even lying to my friends. When I had returned to practice at the barre the previous day, Meg and Christine all but jumped on me to tell them what Madame Giry had wanted. I told them that since this was my first show, she was just making sure I was not too nervous and was giving me encouragement. The looks they gave me, however, told me that they didn't quite believe me.

On top of the fear that my lies would be found out, and the excited tension from tonight's swiftly approaching gala, my head could think of little beyond the disappointing "meeting" with the mysterious teacher. My stomach twisted and bunched in nervous distress; a most uncomfortable feeling to have before any event. Backstage before dress rehearsal, Christine and Meg at last noticed my distracted mood.

"Lina, what's wrong?" Christine asked as we hurriedly dressed in our costumes.

"Nothing is wrong," I replied.

"You've been distracted all day," Meg countered, sharing a look with Christine.

I shook my head vehemently. "I… It's not something I can explain." I poked around at the hairpins on the vanity in front of me, attempting to keep my facial expression neutral.

"Won't you try?" Christine asked. I glanced quickly up at her. She gave me a sweet smile, that so reminded me of myself from years ago, before life had torn my spirit apart.

We looked a lot alike, Christine and I. Meg told us we could easily fool people into thinking we were sisters. Except for the fact that her eyes were deep chocolate brown and her long dark hair an astounding mass of gorgeous curls, so different from my clear sapphire eyes and own dark, but wavy hair, I was certain Meg was right. A quick glance could confuse someone.

Quickly looking away from Christine, I began to put up my own hair. "I… don't want to hurt anybody's feelings," I said with a furtive glance at Meg.

Meg caught the look, however, and stopped lacing her shoes. "Tell us, Lina." Her look was intense and though her voice was soft, it was demanding.

Sighing in resignation, I said, "Has your mother ever… acted strangely?"

Meg laughed. "How do you mean?"

"As in, speaking of someone who doesn't appear to be there."

At this Christine and Meg looked at one another with an expression I was unable to identify. Sharing another secret; always more secrets.

"There is one she speaks of…" Christine said in a low voice.

"No! We mustn't speak of him!" Meg put a restraining hand on Christine's arm.

"She should know, Meg," Christine insisted. "She'll only hear it from someone else if we don't."

The whole dressing room was descended into chaos; cast members were rushing to get dressed, pieces of costumes flying across the room to owners who had lost them, some pushing and shoving to get to their make-up while others were helping one another; crew members were testing the lighting, testing the mechanics, moving props, and some even just finishing pieces of the set. Yet for all the mayhem, it seemed as if for the three of us girls the world had gone still. An unexplained chill ran up my spine.

Meg's furrowed brow and pursed lips told me she was unhappy to speak on this subject, but when she turned to me her expression was one of resignation. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "There is a ghost who lives here, in the theatre. We call him the Phantom of the Opera."

"A phantom?" I asked dubiously.

They both nodded.

"So… your mother is not the only one that believes in this Phantom?" I arched an eyebrow.

"As long as we do as he wishes everything goes well, but if we ignore his requests…" Meg trailed off and gave a shrug.

"Then things happen. Bad things," Christine finished. She gave me an almost apologetic look.

Just then a dancer slammed into me from behind, jostling my thoughts back to the reality of the dressing room.

"Watch what you're doing!" the dancer spat at me.

I murmured an apology as she hurried off. The three of us snapped back into our preparations for rehearsal. A few times I noticed Meg giving me a troubled look and I pretended not to notice. She didn't like the way the other ballerinas pushed me around. Moreover, she did not like me taking the abuse. But what Meg did not understand was that I had been through much worse than what these dancers did. Their petty insults hurt a little, but did not sting as much as the cutting remarks I had had to deal with only months ago. If enduring the ballerinas' harassment meant never going back to the cutting remarks, then endure them I would.

Thinking about my past, even for that split second, dredged up words, horrible words, spoken to me in complete disgust. The memory of them made my breath catch. Tears came swiftly and unbidden, burning my eyes. I squeezed them shut tight, willing the memory away to make the tears stop.

I felt a hand touch my arm and then heard Christine's gentle voice in my ear. "Jacqueline, are you alright?"

Blinking rapidly, I nodded. "I'm fine," I said. I smiled at her reassuringly.

She looked uncertain, but smiled back at me.

"Come on! We'll be late!" Christine grabbed my hand and tugged my arm, bidding me to follow her and Meg.

"Hold on!" I laughed, gently prying Christine's hand from mine. "I need my shoes on first." I turned around to grab them, but they were missing. I knew I had left them right under the vanity in front of me. The smile dropped from my face and I spun back to Christine and Meg, wide-eyed and panicked.

"My shoes!" I said. "They're gone."

"What?"

"My shoes were right here and now they are not."

Meg frowned and pursed her lips together. "We'll help you find them," she said.

We searched everywhere we could in the dressing room with no luck.

"Lost something?" asked a passing ballerina. Her tone implied she knew _exactly_ what I had lost… and undoubtedly knew _how_ they had gone missing in the first place. The stifled giggles from her two friends did nothing to lessen my feelings that she was guilty. I glared at her and didn't answer.

"Hm. Too bad," she sighed, feigning pity. "Maybe you'll find them before bed."

Christine, Meg, and I stared after the trio of ballerinas as they strolled off. _Them._ She had said _them._ That wretch had taken my shoes and hidden them. Before I could start crying in despair Meg grabbed my arm.

"'Maybe you'll find them before bed,'" she quoted, looking at me intensely. "Lina! Let's check the dormitory."

As it turned out my friend Meg was brilliant. I found my shoes under my bed. Meg and Christine stayed with me while I put them on, then we hurried down to where we knew Madame Giry would be instructing the girls on the barre for warm-ups. We rushed down the stairs, jabbering the whole time, the two of them pausing at the bottom to dust their pointe shoes while I skipped on ahead to the barre.

Since I was wearing so much tulle in my skirt that a whole new outfit could be made from it, I skipped the warm ups this time. But I dutifully stood nearby waiting for Madame Giry to tell me what to do next. While I waited, I stole a covert glance at the girls who had hidden my shoes from me. Two of them were actually paying attention to what they were doing, but one shot a nasty glance my way. I saw her look at my feet for a second and witnessed the disgust on her face. I was certain she was upset that I had found my shoes… more than that, she was upset that I was still in the show. Which was completely ridiculous as I was not dancing with the ballerinas anyway. I was to be acting and _singing_ with the chorus. And… the diva.

I could not stand that woman. An arrogant peacock of a woman, La Carlotta the prima donna strutted about and acted almost as if she were the one in charge. In a way, I suppose she was. It seemed that if she did not like something then it was changed to suit her taste. Thankfully, this had nothing to do with me so I was lucky in that I did not have to engage her. I was certain if I ever did speak to her she would ignore me or perhaps have one of her sycophants throw me out of the theatre.

Unfortunately, I did have to get near her during this act. I had to walk right past her, which was a path I generally avoided.

I did my best to put aside my fears and doubts and prejudice and concentrate on what I was supposed to do. Choreography and singing! I was supposed to _sing!_ I did not have to fake the broad smile I wore.

We all sang:

 _With feasting and dancing and song_

 _Tonight in celebration_

 _We greet the victorious throng_

 _Returned to bring salvation_.

Meg was right. It was thrilling! I found it thrilling just to be able to sing again. But it was made all the more magnificent by being a dress rehearsal. The costumes of gold, red, white, and blue, fantastic red feather plumes on the men's helmets, Carlotta's jeweled head-dress and golden make-up - all moving and shifting on the stage with the crystal chandelier watching us from its height in the great vaulted ceiling. I had never felt better. Never more alive! And honestly, never had felt more like I belonged.

I went over the choreography in my mind, hearing Madame Giry's voice in my head, knowing that she watched from the side and that if I made a misstep that I would hear her voice directly in my ear.

The tenor, Ubaldo Piangi, came forward for his solo. He had not gotten very far when I heard a commotion behind us. I tried to ignore it, but it proved impossible. Despite being under the scrutiny of Madame Giry, I turned to see what was going on.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Sorry it was such a long wait for this chapter! I was on vacation and then had another trip on top of that. But I'm back now! However, I've only got one more chapter to post for this story before I hit the end of my reserves. I'm working tirelessly to finish the following chapter, but as any of you fellow writers know, it's not always an easy thing to do.**

 **Your comments encourage me to write faster, so thank you all for the wonderful response! :)**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and hope to have another one up next week!**


	5. Part Cinq

Monsieur Lefevre was approaching, talking as if we were not in the middle of something rather important. He was leading two strangers right onto the stage, clearly intent on completely disturbing the performance. Ubaldo stopped singing and sent an irritated glare at him.

Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, was terribly upset by the interruption, but I could hardly blame him. He was a strict man and took his job, and everyone else's, very seriously. Could Monsieur Lefevre not spare poor Monsieur Reyer's nerves by waiting until the song had been finished? Perhaps the two gentlemen he was leading were in a hurry.

"Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!" Reyer said, clearly agitated.

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, uh, please," said Monsieur Lefevre, acting a bit on the nervous side. "If I could have your attention, thank you. As you know, for some weeks, there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true. And, uh, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire - Monsieur Richard Firman and Monsieur Gilles André." Here Monsieur Lefevre paused, while the cast and some of the crew greeted the new owners with a round of applause.

"I'm sure you've read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business," he continued.

"Scrap metal… actually," the one named André corrected him.

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Vicomte de Chagny," said Monsieur Firmin.

At this, a handsome young man hurried his way across the stage. His face was a face that was sure to have all the girls talking. Even me, I concluded. I glanced around for Christine and Meg. I didn't want to have attention drawn to me, as I was standing fairly close to the new owners, but I ducked my head and quickly made my way over to where Meg and Christine were standing.

As I approached them, I could tell Christine was smitten with our new patron. The dreamy far-away look in her eyes made sense when I caught her saying to Meg, "I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. He called me Little Lotte."

"Christine," said Meg, "he's so handsome!"

"I had come to lay claim to the new patron, but I guess I am several years too late," I teased Christine with a nudge. She flashed me a smile, but quickly returned to watching the vicomte, as did I.

"My parents and I are honored to support all the arts, especially the world-renowned Opera Populaire," announced Vicomte de Chagny.

La Carlotta sauntered over to stand in front of the vicomte and the new owners, and Monsieur Lefevre introduced the diva. "Vicomte, gentlemen: Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons."

"Brava! Brava!" called Carlotta's entourage as she, wearing a huge falsely charming smile, held her hand out to the Vicomte.

A high pitched cough caught everyone's attention next.

"Signor Ubaldo Piangi!" Lefevre gave a brief introduction.

"An honor, Signor," said the Vicomte. "I believe I'm keeping you from your rehearsal. I will be here this evening to share your great triumph." Turning his attention to Monsieur Reyer he said, "My apologies, Monsieur."

"Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte!" Monsieur Reyer called to him. To Piangi he said, "Once more, if you please, signor!"

I shook my head at the diva across the stage who was saying, "He love me! Love me, love me."

I gave a small involuntary gasp as the Vicomte walked right past me, Meg, and Christine. I looked at Christine and though she still wore a smile I saw the disappointment in her eyes.

"He wouldn't recognize me," she said, looking at Meg.

"He didn't see you," Meg told her.

We were interrupted by Madame Giry calling, "If you please!" Although she was speaking to our new managers, it was the cue for Meg and Christine to go onstage.

I watched them from the side stage. I tried not to be envious of the way they moved with such grace, reminding myself that someday I could dance like that. If I stayed here and continued to train. I also reminded myself that I was not in any hurry to wear costumes as skimpy as the ones they were wearing. I did not like too much skin to be revealed. For more than one reason; a point driven home by the reaction that I noticed occurring with Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André as they walked with Madame Giry across the stage. They had a glint in their eyes which made me uncomfortable and were pointing out some of the ballerinas. And I was certain one of them pointed at Christine. Briefly, Monsieur Lefevre's command to find an _abonné_ flitted through my mind. It did not have time to settle there because it was time for me to rejoin the cast onstage.

During our dance one of the men stepped on La Carlotta's dress and she yelled at him, looking irritated. I was glad that I had not been the one to receive that look.

We finished our song and I went to the only place I felt comfortable, by Christine's and Meg's sides. They were still breathing heavily from their exhausting routine and I myself was a bit out of breath from the singing.

"That," I exclaimed, "was amazing!"

The girls grinned at me. Christine opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it was died on her tongue as we heard Carlotta's loud voice carried across the stage.

"Because _I_ will not be singing!" Carlotta turned on her heel, calling after her loyal subjects. I looked to Madame Giry, but she flicked her eyes heavenward in a mild expression of irritation as she watched the diva leaving.

Our new managers set off after Carlotta, spewing flattering names, while Carlotta continued to threaten that she was leaving. Finally the men got her attention and she stop and spun around to face them.

"Monsieur Reyer…" began André, "isn't there a rather marvelous aria for Elyssa in Act Three of Hannibal?"

Poor Monsieur Reyer was spluttering in protest, but André continued, "Perhaps the signora-"

"Yes, yes, yes. Ma no!" Carlotta interrupted. "Because I have not my costume for Act Three, because somebody _not finish it!_ And," she added for good measure, "I 'ate my 'at!"

"But I wonder, Signora," Firmin pleaded, although he tried to make it sound as though he wasn't, "as a personal favor, if you would oblige us with a private rendition?"

The girls around me were caught up in a conversation, but I couldn't tear my attention away from the dilemma with the diva. Would she really leave, I wondered. The insufferable woman was giving them quite a show, complete with a crying jag that was utterly fake.

Quickly Firmin added, "Unless, of course, Monsieur Reyer objects."

Reyer spluttered some more, seemingly so baffled that he could not form a coherent sentence. He stopped his noise, however, when Carlotta cried out something in Italian. Everyone went silent. Carlotta smiled at her managers then, and at least pretended to think about her decision.

"Ifah my managers command," she said sweetly. As sweet as Carlotta could get. The managers chuckled causing Carlotta to turn to Reyer. "Monsieur Reyer?"

"If my _diva_ commands," he said in a fairly mocking tone of voice.

"Yes! I do!"

I relaxed a little, understanding that she would sing for them, they would praise her, and she would stay.

She took her place on the stage, telling everyone to be quiet, even commanding André and Lefevre to be silent as well.

Carlotta began to sing her song; a song I thought was rather pretty, had La Carlotta not been the one singing it.

I tried to enjoy it for the music's sake, but aside from Carlotta singing it, something felt wrong. I frowned, unable to find an explanation for it. It was akin to the feeling I got whenever Benoit caught me humming. It was not a good feeling. Worriedly, I looked out to the auditorium afraid I would see him sitting there, waiting to collect me after Carlotta's song. The only people I saw were the women cleaning the auditorium pausing to stuff cotton in their ears. If I hadn't felt so ill at ease I might have laughed. Next I looked at our new managers and caught Monsieur Firmin checking his pocket watch.

I shook my head at myself. I was being ridiculous, Benoit wasn't here. I was safe here.

Then Meg screamed.

I heard a strange sound from up above and, looking up, saw a backdrop coming toward me and my friends. We three girls jumped back as the falling backdrop landed, barely missing us.

The deviant back-drop did not miss Carlotta. It landed on her huge skirt, pushing her forward, face-first into the stage. There was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone rushed to help her. She cried out in what sounded more like anger than pain, slapping the stage with her palms.

Monsieur Lefevre called up an inquiry to the catwalks above, summoning Monsieur Buquet, the chief stagehand.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera," Meg said, as she and Christine clung to one another.

Madame Giry pushed past us, but instead of going to help with the backdrop she went backstage. I thought that was quite odd.

Turning my attention to Meg I said, "You can't be serious, Meg." I shot her a doubtful look.

"Sh! He'll hear you!"

I was about to tell her to stop being foolish and that there were no such thing as ghosts, but the panic I saw in her eyes… A fear that was not easily set aside by a few reprimanding words. Her reaction almost had me believing her. That worried me far more than the ghost.

Monsieur Buquet finally called down, asking forgiveness as he wasn't at his post and to say there was no one else up there.

"Or if there is," his tone turning mocking, "well, then, it must be a ghost!"

The cast gasped at this statement and I looked about at them in wonder. They _all_ believed in the ghost story? I merely shook my head. I did not believe in ghosts. _Ridicule_.

"Signora," André said, attempting to smooth out the situation, "these things do happen."

Carlotta appeared disbelieving. "For the past three years these things do 'appen. And did you stop them from happening? NO! And you two! You are as bad as him! 'These things do 'appen,'" she mimicked, immediately followed by a frustrated growl. "No! Until you stop these things from 'appening, this thing-" she pointed to herself "-does not 'appen!"

Yelling at people once again she marched off.

As she walked away, I saw my future following after her. If La Carlotta did not sing there would be no gala; if there was no gala, then there would be no sponsors to help me, and with no sponsor…

My heart began beating faster as I pictured myself on the Paris streets, begging for food or money. Or worse; running back to Benoit.

Monsieur Lefevre looked to Firmin and André and said, "Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia."

Monsieur Reyer made a devastated sound and I thought that he might swoon.

The girls with me were having a conversation, but I had tuned them out. I took a few steps closer to our managers to hear them better over my racing heartbeat, praying that they had a solution to all of this. Unfortunately, they were just as flummoxed as I.

"Signora Giudicelli, she will be coming back, won't she?" André stammered.

"You think so, Monsieur?" Madame Giry said from behind me. I turned to see her holding a letter in her hands and wearing a rather smug look on her face. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

"Oh, God in heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin said, rolling his eyes. I agreed with him, but wondered where the letter had truly come from.

"He welcomes you to his opera house-" Madame Giry tried to continue, but Firmin interrupted.

" _His_ opera house!" he exclaimed.

"And commands that you continue to leave box five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?" Firmin sounded incredulous.

She made an affirming little sound. "Monsieur Lefevre used to give him twenty-thousand francs a month."

"Twenty-thousand francs?!"

"Perhaps you can afford more? With the vicomte as your patron," she replied, slowly backing away. Despite my fears, I found myself hiding a smile at Madame Giry's cheeky response.

"Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the vicomte was to join us for the gala, but obviously we shall now have to cancel as it appears we have lost our star!"

Murmuring erupted around me, increasing my own nervousness. I started playing with the red fabric of my skirt, attempting to suppress the panic attack I felt rising inside me, even as Firmin seemed to be having a panic attack of his own.

Through the cloud of distress, Madame Giry's bold voice remained calm. "Christine Daaé could sing it, sir."

I looked at Madame Giry with raised had mentioned to me once how she loved to sing, but I had never heard her sing before. I felt, briefly, a thread of jealousy that Madame Giry would choose Christine over me to sing, but then, I was still in need of some teaching. Oh, if only an opera house voice instructor existed as Madame Giry had said.

"What, a chorus girl? Don't be silly," Monsieur André chided Madame Giry.

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher," she said.

"Who?" André asked Christine.

"I don't know his name, Monsieur," Christine replied somewhat apologetically.

Surprised, I stared wide-eyed at Christine. How could she not know her teacher's name? It seemed absurd. But then I thought of how Madame Giry had never told me the name of whom I was to audition for. Perhaps, she had done the same thing to Christine; let her practice with the man, but withholding his name. But there had been no one in the auditorium when I auditioned. And for what purpose would she need to withhold the teacher's name from Christine? Something very suspicious was going on here and I wondered at what game Madame Giry was playing. First, a mysterious letter from the "Opera Ghost" and now a teacher with no name.

"Let her sing for you, Monsieur," Madame Giry insisted, placing a hand on Christine's shoulder. "She has been well taught."

A look passed between André and Firmin, but Monsieur André seemed to make a decision all on his own.

"All right, come on," André said, waving Christine forward. "Don't be shy."

I glanced over at Meg, catching her eye. The confused expression she wore told me that she knew only as much as I did. I made my way over to Meg's side as Christine slowly stepped away from Madame Giry, bowing her head nervously.

"Come on, come on." André waved her forward impatiently.

Monsieur Reyer returned to his conductor's post and called out to Christine, "From the beginning of the aria then, please, mademoiselle."

The music began just as beautiful as it had been for Carlotta. Then Christine opened her mouth to sing... and out came the voice of an angel. A voice so astonishingly beautiful, that within seconds of hearing it, I raised a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. I felt the tears trailing down my cheeks; just crying at the beauty of Christine's voice. I lowered my hands to my chest, clutching them tightly together and closed my eyes, simply taking in the song.

I felt the movement next to me, just before a hand touched my back. I flinched although the touch was gentle. Meg's voice whispered in my ear, "Are you alright?"

Sighing deeply, I said, "It's so beautiful." Opening my eyes, I saw Meg smile. I smiled back at her and we silently turned our attention to the budding diva who had taken center stage. We listened as the perfect acoustics of the auditorium carried the angelic voice up to the very pinnacle of the theatre, but I imagined a hundred angels flying heavenward, each carrying a note of Christine's song.


	6. Part Six

On gala night, Christine stood center stage, singing that wonderful song, the melodious tone of her voice keeping the audience captivated. With sparkling starbursts in her hair and a glittering white gown, she truly looked like an angel.

While I stood and watched her, I tried not to feel envious. She was in a place where I would have loved to have been. But I knew I was nowhere near the skill that she had. She had earned that place on the stage, in that dress, by practice and a lot of training and hard work. At least, I thought this must have been her path. Since nobody seemed to know she had even been taking lessons, it was hard to say for certain exactly what had transpired that led to this lovely voice.

On the not-so-selfish other hand, I was incredibly happy for Christine. She deserved to be heard for a change. It was a magnificent break from that horrid La Carlotta. Perhaps the crowd would not even miss her. Perhaps now they would call for Christine to be their doted-on diva.

A wicked little smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. Oh, to see Carlotta squirm! I would have loved to have seen her at that moment. I was sure she wasn't in the audience, but positive that one of her attendants would be playing spy for her. There was no way Carlotta was going to give up her position that easily. She may have walked out on our managers, but she fully expected to be bought back; of this I was certain. If Christine hadn't been there, who knows what kind of ridiculous things Messieurs Firmin and André might have done to win Carlotta back.

The thought made me fairly sick, so I returned my attention to Christine. Her song ended and the crowd erupted in a frenzy of clapping, cheers, and whistles. From my spot just off stage I was able to distinguish the voices of our managers, cheering loudly for her too.

I turned to Meg, whose smile mirrored my own.

"She was magnificent!" Meg exclaimed.

"Carlotta could never top that," I stated, albeit quietly. I did not now how anyone could use the simple statement against me, but I had a feeling that they would find a way. There had been no more incidents following my shoe disappearance, but Madame Giry had kept everyone very busy. We had all been far too busy with rehearsal for anyone to pull more stupid pranks.

After the audience began to disperse, I found myself backstage jammed into a corridor to where the male portion of the audience was dispersing. Meg had explained to me what I could expect after the show, so I was hardly surprised to see that the corridor was filled with smooth talking men in tuxedos and giggling ballerinas and not a single woman from the audience. I saw a trio of men chatting together and I paused to watch them. My quest to find an _abonné_ was foremost in my mind, although it was the last thing I wanted.

But I had no choice.

Before I could move, the group I had been watching turned their heads and looked directly at me, as if they had heard my thoughts. Suddenly self-conscious, I noticed I was toying with the fabric of my skirt again and I could feel the heavy thumping of my heart against my chest. I wondered what had caught their attention.

Then I saw the ballerina next to them. Giselle, the horrible little shrew that hid my shoes, was pointing at me. She stopped pointing long enough to hide her face while she told them some false "secret" of mine. The men looked slightly aghast and then laughed.

I felt my face flush. Unable to stand it any longer, I turned to head in the opposite direction and promptly ran into Meg.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Meg," I apologized.

"It's alright," Meg replied. "I'm just looking for Christine, but I don't see her."

"I think your mother took her up to the diva's room," I said.

"No, I asked her and she said she hadn't seen Christine either."

"Perhaps the chapel?" I suggested. I knew that Christine went there often to light a candle for her father.

Together we went off to the chapel in search of our friend.

Meg called out to her in sweet sing-song, "Christine! Christine!"

Rounding the curved stairway leading down to the chapel, I wasn't surprised to see Christine sitting on the floor in front of the candelabra, one candle lit.

Meg was on her immediately, continuing her singing, sweet and pleasant to hear. It made me smile. "Where in the world have you been hiding? Really you were perfect! I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your great tutor?"

I wished I knew her secret too. Hoping to gain some insight to the strange things going on here, I remained quiet waiting for Christine's answer.

"Meg, when your mother brought me here to live," Christine began, in a voice that made it seem she had been waiting for a long time to tell someone this particular story, "whenever I'd come down here alone, to light a candle for my father… a voice from above. And in my dreams he was always there. You see, when my father lay dying he told me that I would be protected by an angel. An angel of music."

"Christine," Meg said, "Do you believe-" She cut herself off and tried again. I could see that she did not want to hurt our friend by telling Christine she didn't really believe what she had said.

"Do you think the spirit of your father is coaching you?"

"Who else, Meg? Who?" was Christine's answer, a fiery passion lighting her dark eyes.

Looking at Meg I could see that she was trying to reason it out. Good. I was not satisfied with the answer either. There had to be another explanation; spirits did not teach people to sing. Before I could say anything, Christine began to sing softly.

 _Father once spoke of an angel_

 _I used to dream he'd appear_

 _Now as I sing I can sense him_

 _And I know he's here_

 _Here in this room he calls me, softly_

 _Somewhere inside, hiding_

 _Somehow I know he's always with me_

 _He, the unseen genius_

This poor girl, only five years younger than I, yet believing dead relatives talked to us. I did not believe that. I sang to my grandfather's grave, hoping that up in heaven he could hear me. But I never expected an answer. I knew better than that. The dead are gone and there is nothing left for them to say. Someone needed to set this girl right. I decided the best way was to do it kindly. Christine had risen as she sang and I took her hand and led her towards the staircase.

Humoring her somewhat, I sang:

 _Christine, you must have been dreaming_

 _Stories like this can't come true._

Thankfully, I had Meg on my side, who caught on quickly and joined in.

 _Christine, you're talking in riddles_

 _And it's not like you!_

This seemed to have no effect, however, on Christine. She continued singing in glorious crescendo.

 _Angel of Music, guide and guardian_

 _Grant to me your glory_

 _Angel of Music, hide no longer_

 _Secret and strange angel_

 _He's with me even now…_

We had entered into a long corridor, the walls merely sheer black curtains on either side of us. Worry creased my brow as I realized how cold Christine's hands were and though she was singing I felt an urge to interrupt. So I did, though Christine still continued to sing, too.

 _Your hands are cold-_

 _All around me…_

 _Your face, Christine, it's white!_

 _It frightens me._

 _Don't be frightened,_ Meg sang and took Christine's other hand to comfort her.

I was genuinely worried about Christine. The fact that she was frightened, in return, frightened me. If she had continued acting excited that her father's spirit was speaking to her, then I could easily brush it off as pure imagination. When she became frightened of the fact that she was hearing ghosts, it made me nervous. Phantoms and spirits and invisible voice coaches… this opera house was getting stranger all the time and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Unintentionally, I thought of my home and Benoit and I gulped.

I preferred the phantoms. They had not done anything to me yet, at least.

We led Christine back up to the backstage celebration and to Madame Giry, who whisked her off to the diva's bedroom to keep her away from all the hopeful patrons. Silly men. Christine was in no need of an _abonné_. Her father's fortune paid her way.

Nevertheless, while I stood wondering what to do about my own situation, I saw the Vicomte de Chagny approach the Messieurs André and Firmin. They exchanged a few words, of which I could not hear over the chatter in the hall, then the vicomte took the flowers Monsieur André held and went into Christine's room.

While I was certain of the vicomte's standing as a good man who would not take advantage of Christine, I was unfortunately back on the subject of money and sponsors. My insides bunched up immediately at the thought and I felt I was going to throw up. I turned away quickly, not wanting the managers to see me in distress. Meg walked with me, holding my elbow while I held my stomach.

"It will be alright," she said. "There is a man - a younger man - who I believe would make a good sponsor for you. He's just recently acquired his inheritance."

"If it's a brunette man with a mustache, I think he may have been turned against me already," I replied bitterly.

"Whatever are you talking about? Did Giselle say something?" Meg narrowed her eyes at me.

I did not feel inclined to explain, so I simply nodded.

Letting out a disgusted noise, Meg squeezed my arm tighter in irritation.

"Never mind that," she said. "I will fix it. We'll go find him and I'll introduce you and -"

I stopped abruptly and turned to her. "I can't do this, Meg," I whined. "My stomach hurts and I'm afraid I might throw up. And what if you can't change his mind? What if Giselle tells everyone some horrible lie and I can't…"

Meg had thrown her hands up and was gesturing at me to settle down.

"Lina, it's just nerves. How about this: you go take a little walk to calm down and I'll go talk to that man? Once you've calmed down, come find me and everything will be alright."

I did not want to agree, but I could barely argue with her. Defeated, I nodded slowly.

Walking off by myself, I got that urge I had on that final night I faced Benoit. An urge to run. But now where would I go? There was nowhere left to run. It was here with an _abonn_ é, or there with Benoit. God forgive me, I could not decide which was worse. Benoit had done horrible things to me, but had never violated me. Never once threatened me in that way. And now here I was, relying on Meg to talk someone into becoming that person…

In exchange for a sponsor to pay for me living and training at the opera house, I had to perform a service as well.

But I did not want to do that.

My hands were shaking so I folded my arms to hide it. Not that there was anyone around to see. I walked down quiet hallways, avoiding as many people as possible. I tried to calm down by telling myself that I had some true friends now and that whatever happened, I thought they would stand beside me.

Eventually, I came back to the hall right outside the diva's room where Christine was staying. But as her door came into view, I hesitated. Vicomte de Chagny was there, but no one else. I watched as he tried to turn the doorknob, but it resisted.

Locked.

Why was her door locked? Did she not want to see him? I bit my lip wondering if I should interfere.

But then I heard the vicomte mutter, "Whose voice is that?"

Sensing some trouble, I stepped forward and he looked up at me, a frown creasing his handsome face. "Has anyone entered this room?" he asked, demanding.

I raised my eyebrows. "Not that I know of, sir. But I have not been…" I trailed off as I neared the door and heard a man's voice from the other side of the door. A chill went down my spine as I realized that someone was in the room with Christine.

And we had no idea who.

Raoul banged against the door calling for Christine, but she did not answer, nor did she open the door.

"I will go find Madame Giry," I told him. "Perhaps she will know."

I ran off to find her. After twenty minutes of searching, I did find her. But her help was far from helpful. She told me that Christine needed her rest and that she did not want any more visitors tonight.

"But Madame Giry there was someone else in there with her! I'm sure of it!" I cried.

"I think you must be quite stressed, Jacqueline. Hearing voices! And if there is someone in her room, that is none of our business," she said tightly. "You should be resting, too. Come, come! Time for sleep." She tried ushering me on my way, but I was so flabbergasted by her lack of concern that I didn't move.

"But then what did I hear? Surely the vicomte and I have not _both_ gone mad. Who is in there with Christine? The vicomte is trying to get in to see her," I explained. I saw her jaw twitch, but she remained stoic.

"Did you find a sponsor, Jacqueline?" she asked. The unexpected question hit me with such force that I was certain hitting a stone wall would have hurt less.

"N-no." My voice was barely a whisper. "Meg thought…" I couldn't even finish the sentence. I looked about, realizing that all the guests had gone. I blinked. When had they left? It didn't really matter _when_ they had left, the point was that they left. And I had missed my opportunity.

The look on Madame Giry's face was enough to tell me that she was disappointed and concerned. Unable to stand it, I told her I would go to bed and I left, feeling as depressed and as helpless as I ever had.

And I was left wondering: now what do I do?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Okay, all my lovelies! This is the part where I'm going to reeeeally have to work hard to get this story the way I want it, so future updates may NOT be very steady. Or maybe they will. It all basically depends on what life allows me to do and how inspired I am. And I am not very fond of this chapter and am positive it will undergo some sort of major editing at some point in the future, but for now, I'm just posting it. Please, please DO tell me what you think of it! Even if you don't like it. _Especially_ if you don't like it! But if you do like it, I'd like to know...**

 **...what do YOU think Lina should do now? ;)**


	7. Part Sept

"Where were you!?" Meg had cried when she found me. "I had that man waiting forever!" I had kept my eyes downcast as she berated me, unable to look at her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her move and I flinched.

I had not seen Benoit in ten months, but still the fear of his wrath lay deep inside me. I could feel myself tense at every raised voice, whether it was directed at me or not. Although I never told Meg, or Christine, why I did it, they noticed it; every flinch, every cringe, every breath held waiting for someone's anger to subside. Each time, they talked to me and soothed me despite the fact that they had no idea why I acted the way I did. Wonderful, thoughtful, _true_ friends.

Meg must have seen that cowed look about me then because she apologized. We went our separate ways then and I sought out the vicomte. I had disappointed Madame Giry and Meg; I did not want to disappoint the vicomte by leaving him waiting for me to return.

The vicomte was pacing in front of the double-doors when I finally made it back to him. He looked relieved for a moment when he saw me, but the look faded as he noticed the worried expression I still wore.

I relayed to him what Madame Giry had told me. That Christine was fine; resting. He narrowed his eyes at me and I gulped.

"But there was clearly a voice that was _not_ Christine's on the other side of that door," he said, looking incredulous.

I gave him a demure shrug. "I tried to tell her," I said. Sadly, I shook my head. "She wouldn't listen."

The vicomte blew out an exasperated breath of air. He turned to walk away from me, but I called out to him.

"Monsieur le Vicomte!"

He turned back to me, a quizzical gleam in his eyes. "Yes?"

Playing with my skirt, I opened my mouth then shut it again. I was torn. Did I dare say what was on my heart to say? Something was wrong here. I could feel it; _sense_ it, but I could not figure out what it was exactly. Madame Giry had something to do with it, I was sure, but I was not about to pin the blame on her when she had so generously taken me in and taken care of me. But shouldn't I tell someone else my suspicions before someone got hurt? Before _Christine_ got hurt?

"What is it?" the vicomte pressed. Looking up at him, I met his gaze. There was a genuine worry in his blue eyes.

Taking a deep breath I said, "There is something strange going on here. In the opera house. I don't know what it is, but… it-" I paused, looking for a word that was not too extreme, "-worries… me."

The vicomte continued to hold my gaze, judging my words and intentions. "It worries you," he repeated. I nodded. "I see," he said, furrowing his brow.

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologized, suddenly getting the feeling that I had no business talking to this man. "I just… wanted someone else to know."

"Wanted someone to know that something strange is going on?"

"Yes, Vicomte."

"I am sorry, what is your name?"

The question surprised me and my mouth gaped dumbly for a second before I was able to say, "Jacqueline. Jacqueline Devoreaux."

The Vicomte came right up to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. Or at least, he tried to. When he lifted his hand, I shied away quickly, closing my eyes. I did not see exactly, but I think my reaction startled him just as much as his had me. Realizing what I had done appalled me and I forced my eyes open. With a scrutinizing look, the vicomte gently laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"Something strange _is_ going on here, Miss Devoreaux," he said softly. "But rest assured, it is likely nothing dangerous. You are in no danger here. All right?" He used his other hand to tilt my face toward him, forcing me to look at him. His eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Again, all I could do was nod.

He shifted his gaze to his hand, still on my shoulder. I could see the question there in his eyes; the question of why I had dodged his touch. I tried not to panic as I thought he was going to ask - or demand - a reason for my behavior. Instead, he removed his hands and gave me a little bow, smiling a little.

I found myself returning his smile. Somehow his words had soothed me; released some great pressure I felt. I was glad that I had decided to share my concerns with the vicomte, even though it had initially felt awkward and wrong. As I watched him leave, I wondered at the impropriety of asking him to be my sponsor. My face grew warm with a blush kissing my cheeks, brought on by thoughts of _that_ uncomfortable conversation. The implication would be disastrous and likely cause Christine great emotional pain as well. No, I could not do that to her. I would stay away from the Vicomte de Chagny. I had enough whispers about me floating through the ranks of the ballerinas, that I did not need to add more, neither did I need to drag Christine down with me.

I shook my head in disgrace. Perhaps Destiny had only brought me here to show me that I _didn't_ belong here. But how could it be so cruel? My stomach was starting to hurt again and I made a quick decision to simply live here as long as I could. Until the Messieurs Firmin and André kicked me out. Until I had to run back to my father's house.

Until I had to run back to Benoit.

There was no way I was going to get any sleep tonight. Regardless of that fact, I crept up the stairs to the dormitory, only to meet Meg coming down.

"I thought perhaps you had gone to bed," she said by way of greeting.

I shook my head. "I don't think I can sleep," I told her. Noise drifted down the stairs from the dormitory. Someone talking; girls giggling. Not wanting whomever was up there to hear our conversation, I pulled Meg down the stairs and, after making sure no one else was around to eavesdrop, I explained the reason why I hadn't returned to her in time to meet the would-be sponsor.

"Do you think we should go see her?" Meg asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Should we make sure Christine is alright?"

I pursed my lips, thinking. Finally, I nodded. "I think so. I most certainly won't be able to sleep until I know she's alright."

Meg nodded too. "Meet me outside Christine's room," she commanded. So I did.

I did not have to wait long until she showed up at Christine's door, with a ring of keys in her delicate hands. Meg fumbled with the keyring for only a second before finding the correct key. She unlocked the door and gently pushed it open, both of us stepping inside without hesitation. It was unnerving how dark and silent the room was. I hoped Christine really was sleeping.

"Christine?" Meg whispered into the dark. No response. We crept into the room and I carefully shut the door behind us. The room was spacious, most of that space taken up with enormous bouquets of pink roses, the old diva's favorite. Flowers intended for her, no doubt, but passed off to Christine who had sung in her stead. Aside from all the flowers, La Carlotta's posters hung on the wall, and there was a definite feminine feel in the decorating, marking it quite obviously as the old diva's room. We made our way deeper into the room, throwing a glance back over our shoulders after a few steps to make sure we were truly alone. Something felt wrong and the back of my neck tingled. I wondered if Meg had the same feeling, as she kept throwing glances over her shoulder. I didn't see Christine anywhere, and in the dim light I could see this was only a sitting room. I frowned. That light… Where was that light coming from? I did not see any candles.

"Meg! Look!" I exclaimed, grasping her arm and pointing; pointing right at the gilt-framed floor-length mirror at the back of the room- and the light coming from the wall behind it.

We looked at each other, and in silent agreement, stepped closer to the mirror to examine it. I was positive that the nervousness I felt was shared by Meg, although she was the one who reached the mirror first, grabbing the edge. She peered around the back of the mirror while I hung back, studying the mirror from a short distance. The golden frame seemed to be firmly attached to the wall, but the glass portion of the mirror appeared to roll aside on some sort of track. With a questioning look at me, to which I merely responded with raised eyebrows, she pushed the mirror. It slid easily along the wall, revealing more light and a passage beyond.

A sharp intake of breath had Meg looking back at me again. I didn't look at her. I just stepped forward and grabbed onto her hand. She turned her attention back to the secret passage and the mirror door. Carefully checking out the passage just inside the mirror-door, she deemed it safe enough and stepped through, holding my hand, and I followed.

Looking at the back of the mirror revealed that it was only a mirror on the outside. From this side, inside the tunnel, you could see right through it.

"You can see right through it," Meg whispered to me, unnecessarily.

I nodded. The air felt strange in the tunnel and I was not certain I wanted my voice to be heard here. Also, I wondered if Christine (or whoever else had been in the room with her) had come down this way. It would explain how she could have disappeared from her room so easily.

But… The diva gets a secret passage in her room? To where? No matter where it led, La Carlotta would never use that tunnel. She relied too heavily on people seeing her. But had she known it was there? Had she mentioned it in front of the cast members or perhaps the crew? I decided she must have, otherwise how would Christine have discovered it?

Having judged that the door would not lock behind us, Meg and I inched forward into the stone-walled tunnel. Water dripped from the ceiling, leaving puddles on the floor, giving it a damp smell There were sconces on the walls, but none were lit. A light came from somewhere up ahead, out of my field of view, but reflecting in the puddles. The light held a blue tint so I thought perhaps there was a skylight allowing in a bit of moonlight.

We weren't a few metres into the tunnel when I heard a skittering sound. Meg loudly gasped and jumped back, flapping her hands up and down in a gesture of surprised disgust. A couple of rats scampered away from us and I gave Meg a withering look. Her reaction had frightened me more than the rats had. I started down the tunnel again, still moving slowly so that I would not be startled by more rats.

Creeping along in the dim and musty passage, I thought I heard another sound. I paused for only a second, only to have a hand grab my shoulder. Because I thought it was Meg, I let out a gasp of shock when I spun around and found myself face to face with Madame Giry. Beside me, Meg gasped too.

Without words, Madame Giry gave Meg a look that clearly said 'you know better' and took her hand to lead her back out of the passage. I hesitated, though I do not know why.

"Jacqueline," Madame Giry stage-whispered to me. I looked up and she waved at me to follow. I obeyed.

We all filed into the diva's room and Madame Giry closed the mirror behind us. Meg said nothing, so I kept silent too. I did not know what to expect and decided until Madame Giry spoke and I could judge her mood that I should remain quiet.

Madame Giry turned around to face us after the mirror was shut. She just looked at us a moment before sighing. She began speaking as she walked past us to the door.

"Meg, you know better than to explore the secret passages," she said calmly. "They are dangerous. I have told you that should you find one you were _never_ to enter it. Did you forget?" Madame Giry spun around to face her daughter.

"No, I didn't," Meg replied. Gesturing at me she said, "But Lina said that Christine-"

"And I told Jacqueline there was nothing to worry about," she interrupted, clearly irritated at my involvement. "You have heard this warning now, too," she said, speaking to me. "It is for your own safety - and perhaps the safety of others as well - that you avoid the passages. Do not tell anyone of the passage you found and do not go looking for more."

Meg pursed her lips, but said nothing more.

After giving us a scrutinizing look, Madame Giry opened the bedroom door and let Meg out, but stopped me as I passed, putting a hand on my arm. Her touch was gentle, but her voice was firm. "Do not make me regret letting you into this opera house."

I bowed my head. "Yes, Madame," I murmured. I felt foolish. Like a child that was caught being naughty. Although, I had not had that warning from her before, so I should not have felt so ashamed.

I followed Meg back to the dormitory with Madame Giry close behind. As we went up the stairs I could hear the girls shrieking and giggling, as if being frightened on purpose. Indeed this was the case. Monsieur Buquet was there in the dormitory, growling at the ballerinas and a couple women that I recognized that were not with the ballet. I believe those women were in a profession no less degrading than the one in which I currently found myself, so I really could not think ill of them. But I did not enjoy the presence of neither them nor Monsieur Buquet. Especially once he began telling a tale, in a manner of song.

 _Like yellow parchment is his skin_

 _A great black hole serves as the nose that... never grew_

He had a grey blanket draped over his shoulders and it did not take me long to figure out that he was telling a story about the phantom. Again.

 _You must be always on your guard..._

He dropped the blanket from his shoulders and with a sweeping of his hand, pointed theatrically at the girls.

 _Or he will catch you! -with his magical lasso._

As he said this he brandished a rope, tied into a noose. Quickly, he reached out and snagged one of the women, who dared to walk past him at that moment, with the rope. She gasped and leaned away as he growled some more and feigned biting at her.

"Rawr! _Rawr!_ "

I turned away in disgust; both at his horrid story and his horrid behavior. Madame Giry spared me from witnessing anything more when she entered the room and swiftly marched over to Monsieur Buquet, snatching the rope from his grasp. Everyone, including Monsieur Buquet, quieted down in respect.

She sang in a warning tone:

 _Those who speak of what they know_

 _Find too late that prudent silence is wise_

He did not seem to enjoy the fact that Madame Giry had taken his fun away. He looked down his nose at her with a haughty, somewhat challenging, look.

But then she sang:

 _Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!_

And she slapped him. Many of the girls gasped, including myself. Madame! I wondered, was that allowed? I could feel a cold chill over my body. Reassuring myself once again that she would never strike _me_ , I only half-turned my attention back to getting ready for bed.

But Madame Giry wasn't finished.

 _Keep your hands at the level of your eyes!_

With that, she deftly threw the noose around his neck and tightened it. Everyone gasped at that.

"I'm sorry, Madame," Monsieur Buquet croaked.

Madame Giry loosened the noose and took it off. She tossed it at him and he caught it, one-handed, against his chest.

"Get out now," she ordered him.

To his credit, he did not argue with her. Though he did not seem thrilled that she had just nearly choked him. He left and I crawled into bed.

I did not sleep well that night. I tossed about beneath the warm covers, wondering where Christine had gone. Wondering where the tunnel led. Wondering what would happen to me without a sponsor. Wondering, wondering, wondering. Madame Giry's display with the lasso had unnerved me as well and I couldn't get that image out of my head. I had nightmares about it… but it was around my neck and it was Benoit at the other end.

Despite my not sleeping well, I woke up with the rest of the ballerinas when Madame Giry came through to rouse us. I went sleepily and distractedly about my morning until I noticed Madame Giry had gone missing. Without anyone to guide me in my next lesson, I went in search of her.

I had not gone far when I saw her and Meg going down the hall, headed toward the main entrance. I called after them and rushed to catch up. When I finally did catch up to them, a nervousness settled in the pit of my stomach. Something in their eyes…

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing is wrong," Meg replied before her mother could. "Christine is back."

"She's back?" I echoed dumbly. "Is she… alright?"

Meg nodded.

"Yes," said Madame Giry. Soothingly, she added, "I told you she would be well." With a half-smile, she turned around and continued down the hall. Meg and I towed behind, Meg telling me what she knew, while I tried very hard to ignore the fact that she was trailing her mother instead of coming to tell me this piece of news.

"She came back some time very early this morning," she explained. "And now Mother has a letter for the managers. This is usually the time they arrive so we assumed we could meet them at the entrance."

"A letter from whom?"

Meg looked at me. A look that said she did not want to tell me because I would not believe her. "The Phantom of the Opera."

She was right. I did not believe her. But this time I felt it prudent to keep my mouth shut. I just followed mother and daughter out into the grand foyer where we could, indeed, hear the managers.

 _...All we've heard since we came_

 _Is Miss Daaé's name_

Madame Giry did not wait to hear more, as the managers were going up the stairs with none other than Carlotta, linked arm-in-arm between them, followed closely by her entourage. My heart sank. They wanted her back. Christine had completely awed the audience and still they wanted Carlotta back. I felt sick.

"Miss Daaé has returned," said Madame Giry. All those on the stairs spun around to look at her.

"I hope no worse for wear, as far as we're concerned?" asked Monsieur Firmin, a hint of worry in his voice.

"Where precisely is she now?" added Monsieur André.

"I thought it best she was alone," Madame Giry told them.

"She needed rest," Meg interjected.

Vicomte de Chagny was quick to ask, "May I see her?"

"No, Monsieur, she will see no one."

Of course Carlotta and Piangi had only one thing on their minds and butted in, simultaneously. "Will she sing? Will she sing?"

"Here. I have a note," said Madame Giry in answer to their question, extending the piece of parchment she carried. As she held it out I could see the big red skull in the sealing wax. How dreadful! I wondered wherever she had gotten such a hideous seal.

"Let me see it!" they all cried, except Firmin.

Instead, he said more kindly, "Please." And she, looking almost regrettable, gave him the note.

Firmin broke the seal and, removing the note, began to read it aloud to all present. "Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature detailing how _my_ theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of _Il Muto_ you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy. And put Miss Daaé in the role of countess. The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the pageboy is silent which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five, which _will_ be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imaginations will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G."

I blinked in shock at the bold words in the note. This letter was written by someone who knew Christine had been missing. Meg said it had come from the Phantom, but I disagreed with that notion. It most likely had been fabricated by Madame Giry. She was the one always handing out these mysterious notes and so seemed the most likely suspect. Had nobody questioned her? I did not have time to catch the vicomte's eye before Carlotta flew into an outrage.

"Christine!" Carlotta sang loudly, angrily, starting down the stairs.

Piangi was just as upset and their voices joined together to sing, "It's all a ploy to help Christine!"

"This is insane," Firmin said, throwing his hands up.

"I know who sent this!" Carlotta continued, getting in the vicomte's face. "The vicomte - her lover," she spat. Ripping the letter from his hand, she threw it on the ground, lifted her skirts, and proceeded to make her way down the marble staircase.

"Indeed!" Vicomte de Chagny replied sarcastically. "Can you believe this?" he said to the others. He did not seem at all surprised by her outburst, but greatly displeased at her accusation.

I couldn't help but to roll my eyes when the managers chased after Carlotta crying, "Signora! You are our star! And always will be!" Even Madame Giry followed, although I had a feeling it was merely for her benefit to keep an ear on what was happening. If she truly wanted Christine to be the new diva, then she would need to know everything that was going on in the opera house. Meg pranced along behind, casting a glance back over her shoulder at me. I, however, had no interest in the diva's tantrum.

I remained where I was. Looking up the staircase, I realized that I was not the only one who had remained behind. Vicomte de Chagny was still standing on the landing. I considered talking to him, to see what he thought of the note. Or more accurately, _notes_.

The letter Monsieur Firmin read claimed there had been multiple notes sent to them and I was curious as to their contents. All together there could have been some clues as to who had written them. Because this nonsense with the Opera Ghost had to stop. Threatening letters were one thing, but when my friends began to mysteriously disappear, it was time for it to stop. I wasn't sure what I could do to help, but I had to try.

The motivation in me to do this was astonishing. I had never felt like this before. Perhaps it was because I could in no way help myself in my own situation, that I so passionately craved to solve this puzzle. I could not save myself; maybe I could save Christine.

The vicomte finally glanced my direction and I caught his eye. The dark look in his eyes told me that he was unhappy about what had transpired and that he would need some time to think about his next move.

It had me wondering if maybe I was wrong and Carlotta right. Could the vicomte really have written those letters, though?

Staring into those blue eyes I decided no... no he could not have. Something passed between us then, but not words. This was something much deeper than words. As if our very souls were calling out to each other, knowing that we were somehow bound together, in a way that had yet to be discovered. So we locked eyes for a moment, the vicomte and I, and we seemed to come to an understanding. I understood that he would try to find out who had written those letters, and why, and he understood that I would do my best to keep an eye on Christine, to keep her safe.

With a silent nod to each other, we went our separate ways; he went up the stairs and I found myself headed to the dormitory to find Christine. When I got there, her bed was empty.

I stood frowning at the untouched bed. Then I remembered. Clicking my tongue at my mistake, I spun around and headed instead to the diva's room. Since La Carlotta had not yet made her presence known to Madame Giry at the time when Madame would have been taking care of Christine, she likely put Christine to bed in the diva's room.

Holding my breath as I reached for the door handle, I prayed it wasn't locked. The handle let me push it down and I blew out a relieved sigh. With a quick look around to see if anyone was watching, I slipped into the room. Closing the door quietly behind me, I had the eerie feeling of _déja vu_.

The room was once again dark and silent. If Christine was in fact sleeping, then I didn't want to wake her. I moved quietly into the bedroom, but the big canopy bed was also empty. I frowned again. Where on earth was Christine now? I turned my head, looking over my shoulder at the door. She wouldn't…

I hurried back out to the sitting room and turned my eyes upon the mirror at the end of the room. It was closed this time; no light shone out from it's secret tunnel. Walking up to the mirror, I stopped in front of it. I gazed at my reflection and it gazed right back.

"You're in there, aren't you, Christine?" I whispered. "For some reason you keep leaving us. You know where this passage goes."

I was quiet a moment - as if the mirror was going to answer! I shook my head at my foolishness. If Christine had gone down this tunnel, then I needed to know what lay at the other end of it. She had not gone down there to rendezvous with the vicomte, of that at least, I was certain.

I closed my eyes and pictured the vicomte, last night, letting me know he believed me; telling me that there was nothing dangerous here. I pictured him standing on the staircase landing, meeting my gaze. And in his gaze I found strength; strength to do what I thought needed to be done to set this right. My eyes opened and I saw a young woman in that mirror who would do what she needed to help her friend.

My voice was still soft as I put my hands on the glass. "Well, I am sorry, Christine, but you have people that are worried about you and I cannot let you go down that path alone."

With a grunt, I pushed on the glass sideways and the mirror slid aside easily, as if it welcomed me. Eyeing it suspiciously through narrowed eyes, I stepped through the doorway. I was able to see by that strange dim light and I did not hesitate when I walked farther than I had the night before.

Rats, water, and the dark, would not keep me from following after my friend.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Hello, Lovelies! I apologize for not getting this posted on time. Life and all its little tragedies. :S I also apologize for the length of this chapter. I had quite an epic fail in keeping this to the word count limit that I had allowed myself. But I would rather have people complain about a too-long chapter, than have them stop reading because I had compromised quality for a rather pointless limitation. After all, it's about telling the story, not about the length, right? :) Well, let me know how you feel about it in the comments. Or PM me! I'm open to that.**

 **Now, after all that - who's ready to see some Phantom?! ;)**


	8. Part Huit

The dankness of the tunnel did not bother me to begin with, until I had made turns down several hallways. The sleeveless black leotard that I wore proved completely ineffectual against the damp. The water that had dripped incessantly on my head and shoulders for the first portion of tunnel had soaked into my hair and clothes and I began to feel chilled.

When I came to a place where there was a split in the passageway, I chose to take the left tunnel. My plan was that I would take only left turns so that on the way back (if I even came this way) I would only need to make right turns in order to find the way out. It did not take long for me to figure out that this would be an almost worthless plan. There had been several places in which I had been forced to take a right, because it had been so absolutely dark to the left that I could not tell if there was indeed another tunnel that way or if it was only a wall. I did not fancy a broken nose, stubbed and scraped fingers, or worse, so I opted for the more visible path, though it was barely so.

Counting how many different tunnels I had crept through was not something that occurred to me to do, so I did not know how many of the tunnels ran straight and how many spiraled down, but there were plenty. I wondered how deep I was. And then I tried very hard not to think about how deep I was.

It was dark here in the bowels of the earth, so much darker than I could have ever dreamed possible. All light was swallowed up by the infinite darkness. Yet stubbornly, perhaps foolishly, I continued to fumble my way along, running my hands along the wall to guide me. If I left it, I would surely injure myself.

I sniffed as the cool air made my nose run, pausing at another branch in the tunnel, that was more felt than seen. I groaned.

Now I realized that the danger of the secret passage Madame Giry spoke of may have been as simple as getting lost. This passage had already split in a few places and although I had thought I would be able to find my way back, that confidence was beginning to wane.

A very pale light seemed to come from the tunnel on the left so I followed it. Running my hand along the cool stone wall to help myself along, I immediately felt where the stone stopped and dirt began.

"Oh!" I pulled my hand away at the unexpected change in texture. Sighing in annoyance at the jumpy nature I was in, I stretched my hand back out to touch the wall, to confirm the stone was gone. The flat stone of the wall was definitely gone. This was dirt and natural formation stone - hard packed earth, deep beneath the opera house. In the darkness I raised my eyebrows. There were rumors amongst the opera crew that there was an underground lake directly under the Opera Populaire. Part of me wondered if this tunnel would lead me right into it. Right into a watery grave.

I brushed off the notion. While it might certainly lead me to water I wasn't likely to fall in at the ridiculously slow pace in which I was moving. I would be warned before blatantly stepping into a hole; I would feel the edge of a drop-off with my foot, because I tested every step carefully.

And I had come this far. There really was no point in turning back until I found where this passage went. But with the falling away of the stone wall, I questioned whether this was an actual passage at all, but a false one.

My eyes began to tear up. Did I just completely waste my time? It was going to take forever to get back out the way I came and the dark and the loneliness were beginning to gnaw to me. I wished Meg had come with me. I wished I had been intelligent enough to ask her to come. Or at least intelligent enough to bring a candle. What was I thinking?!

Because no one was around to hear, I went ahead a cried. I got myself under control again soon, however, as I needed to concentrate on where I was walking.

The tunnel was sloping down and curving ever so slightly to the left. Finally, I saw a faint light. Golden light. Candlelight! At last!

Thinking myself at the end of the secret passage, I picked up my pace. I stopped abruptly. I could hear something. I stood very still for but a moment before realizing it was the sound of water. This made me creep forward at a cautious pace. The tunnel evened out, but there was water lapping lazily at the ground as it disappeared beneath the murky surface.

But beyond the end of the tunnel, which I could see now a few metres ahead, was the unmistakeable flicker of candlelight. Quite a lot of candles, it seemed, judging from the brightness.

Suddenly, there was a voice. Singing quietly. Not timid, merely singing to himself.

I was startled. Someone was down here! Was Christine here too? Was this the man who had stolen her away last night? I stood for more than a few minutes debating about what to do. Did I just turn around and go back up the dark, lonely tunnel? Or did I go out there and risk this stranger's wrath at finding what might be his secret hideout? I closed my eyes and once again pictured the vicomte's face. Those keen eyes telling me silently that this situation needed to be resolved. That I needed to protect my friend. Then I decided…

I had to see.

Had to know.

I had to know who was singing and who could possibly stand to be down here in the bowels of the opera house. I had to know what was out there at the end of this tunnel. Had to know what I had come so far in the darkness to find.

Carefully, I shuffled one toe into the water, hoping it wouldn't completely ruin my slippers. They had already been soaked through by all the water from that first tunnel and were worn down enough by the long journey through the tunnels. But if they ended up covered in mud, I could say good-bye to them and prepare myself for Madame Giry's wrath. I moved as slowly as I possibly could so that I would not make a sound. My soft, unstarched, tulle skirt floated up around me like a pale-pink water lily. Unlike the senior dancers, I did not wear the stiff tutus. I did not mind.

A murky wave hit me just right and made a strange sloshing sound and I froze. The singing stopped too. I held my breath, waiting for the song to continue. I waited so long I thought I might faint, but eventually I heard the voice again. Only for a minute, then it stopped again. The water was freezing and my teeth were starting to chatter, so I knew I had to move. Sneaking forward once again, I had to cover my mouth and nearly bite my tongue to keep from gasping at the sight before me.

The tunnel I had followed opened up into an underground cavern in which there was an underground lake, but that was not the most impressive part. The most impressive sight was that the cavern had been transformed into a living space of sorts. There were massive candelabras, tables and chairs, desks, papers littering the entirety of it... and an organ.

And a man.

A man in dark pants and a white collared shirt was sitting at the organ. He hadn't noticed me and remained seated before the great instrument, shuffling papers. Sheet music, I realized.

Then he began to play. A tune so beautiful and yet so haunting, that I wanted it to go on forever as much as I wanted it to stop. It made me want to cry, both in heartache and joy. I had never heard such astounding music. If this organ music was accompanied by a full orchestra…

Suddenly, it stopped. I blinked at him from my hiding place, almost angry that he had yanked me so abruptly from my emotional reverie.

Squinting, I saw that he was writing on the music sheets. He wrote for a few minutes then continued playing what sounded like the next segment of music. Understanding dawned on me then. He was _composing_ the music he played! My jaw hung open as I stared at this man's back.

Questions - so many questions! - swirled through my head, with no thought of whom to go to that might answer them except this man himself. It did not matter at all to me then that I was freezing, standing thigh-deep in a murky underground lake. All I wanted was to hear more. Hear more of this music surely written by an angel.

But what kind of angel lives underground?

Setting some papers aside, he turned his head and I saw that he wore a mask.

 _Oh heaven…_

It couldn't be. I nearly choked on the gasp I swallowed. Thankfully, my panic weighed me to the spot and I did not move; did not make a sound.

There were no such things as phantoms. Especially phantoms that played music. Every story - every horrid, deceitful, untrue story that Josef Buquet told me, filled my mind. And especially the fact that the Phantom of the Opera wore a mask to cover his grotesque deformation.

It couldn't be.

Believing that those stories were true would only open me up to be continually frightened by Monsieur Buquet like the other ballerinas were; like Meg. Open me up to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of every strange thing that happened that I had always dismissed as coincidence. No, no this man could not be the Phantom of the Opera.

He looked so… normal. He was just a man! Although, Monsieur Buquet had never said that the Phantom glowed or appeared translucent.

I stood grappling with my emotions and beliefs and feeling quite certain now that no matter who this man was, I had made a mistake. I should never have come here. It was a mistake. I only needed to get back to the tunnels.

I'll never know just what I did to draw his attention, but I did. His head snapped up and he searched only a second before he found me.

Then I did gasp. He moved much quicker than I thought any human should be able to. Perhaps it was just my foolish legs were scared so stiff that I couldn't move at my normal speed. But he came at me, practically snarling like a vicious animal, and yelling something at me. My mind was too paralyzed by fear to comprehend his words. It wasn't too paralyzed to notice that he was not old and that he appeared to be in a good physical condition; slender and strong. As he came toward me, he moved his hands swiftly, but not swift enough. I saw what he carried.

The lasso.

Whether by instinct, Madame Giry's advice, or sheer luck, I threw my hands up. My hands were at face level when he tightened the lasso. He was strong - as strong as Benoit, or stronger. My hair was thick, but not thick enough to stop the rope from biting viciously into the back of my neck. Holding my hands up had prevented the lasso from tightening around my throat, but it still cut into my wrists when he tightened it - still nearly choked me. Surprise registered in his expression when he saw my hands impeding this strangulation.

"Please!" I pleaded, my strangled cry tiny and frightened, as I tried to speak through the battle I was having with the rope. "Please, I meant no harm!"

His shock wore off quickly and he shouted, "Only came to see the demon that dwells beneath the opera house? Look well, for you have found him!"

I winced. For once, not at the shouting, but at the way he described himself. What kind of person refers to himself as a demon?

"Please, Monsieur," I tried again, tears finally sliding down my cheeks, "I found a passageway by accident! I - I did not think you were real."

He leaned in very close and I could see the fire in his eyes as he growled, "I am, most assuredly, real."

With that, he loosened the pressure on the lasso. And I stood there watching in astonishment as he loosened it more and pulled it over my head, releasing me.

"Come," he commanded, for that was how he spoke - his voice was one that was used to being obeyed. "You must be returned before you are missed."

I felt rather indignant at how I was addressed, as if I was a favorite bauble that had been taken off the shelf and needed replaced before Great-Aunt Flora noticed. Nevertheless, I nodded emphatically.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me along quickly behind him, pausing only to toss down the lasso and snatch up a lighted torch from a wall sconce. I noted we did not go down the tunnel from which I had come.

My mind was buzzing with thoughts. Mostly trying to come up with something to say to him, but it was as if every thought had fled. All that came were questions. Questions I was too frightened to ask. How had he come to be here? What had happened to his face to make him wear that mask? Why was he all alone?

He hadn't killed me, but I was certain he would change his mind if I started spouting questions like some silly young schoolgirl without the sense or decency to mind her own business.

So our return to the world above was made in silence, the only sounds the wet slap of my ballet slippers against the stone floor, the split-splat of the lake water dripping from my skirt, and the guttering of the torch's flame. Even the man's footfalls were nearly silent. But the verbal silence only meant that my thoughts then turned to the hand that held my wrist firmly. I took note that it was firm, but he was not hurting me and I found that curious. Considering that he had just tried to kill me.

After what seemed a ridiculously short period of time, compared with my trip down to the catacombs, we arrived at a dead end. Another secret entrance, I realized. My eyes grew wide as I considered the implications. I had noticed during our ascent that the surroundings had changed from wide, almost cavernous, underground tunnels to narrow tunnels of stone. But I had not thought about what that meant.

The Phantom set the torch in a bracket far down the wall from the secret entrance, so as not to attract attention. He guided me, still by the wrist, to the door and stopped. Turning to look at me he said, "You will tell your managers that I am very real indeed and that I expect my demands to be met. Tell no one of what you saw or how you came to find me. Do not come here again. Go."

Gaping at him like a fool, I nodded once again, letting out a small sounding, "Yes, Monsieur!"

His pure-white mask only covered half of his face, very unlike the one in Buquet's stories. The light of the torch hardly touched us here, but even in the barely-light I noticed how strikingly handsome the exposed side of his face was.

We stood for a moment like that - him studying my face for trustworthiness and me studying his face just for the sake of looking at it. For a second he looked a little confused, then slightly uncomfortable on top of that and I felt suddenly very foolish. Glad of the darkness, hoping it would hide my wild blush, I turned to the door. He stood still with an intent look upon his face. I wondered why he didn't open the door, then realized he was listening to the theatre outside, making sure it was clear. Obviously it was because, without hesitation, he opened the secret passage.

And I stepped out.

/

I was in the grand foyer, alone, staring at a gilded wall, trying to sort out what had just happened. As soon as the secret door closed behind me I had spun around to see if I could find it again. I could not. The edges of the door were designed so perfectly to blend in with the decorative carvings on the wall, that it was impossible to find them even though I knew they were there. After realizing there was no way in which I could convince anyone that there was a secret passage here, I slumped to the floor leaning my back against the wall that, a moment ago, had been gaping open to spew me out into this hall of gold and marble and mirrors.

The last hours in which I had lived, traversing the treacherous tunnels and finding the man who presumably lived below, seemed nothing more than a strange dream now that I was sitting here alone in the brightness of the foyer, crystal chandeliers blinking curiously in reflected sunlight at me.

Knowing that the shaking in my hands and legs was not simply from fright, but from the damp clothes that clung to me, I stood up to head to the dormitory, where I would change into a dry outfit. At least, that was where I had thought I wanted to go. But I found myself instead roaming the wide gilded halls and busy back rooms for the managers.

I did not want to admit to myself that the Phantom was real. That I had found his lair and that he had led me up a secret passageway leading into the opera house. But deep down... my heart knew better.

I saw those eyes of his. I sought out the peace and grounding I had found earlier with the vicomte's blue gaze, but it was smothered - smothered by a fiery green gaze that bore straight through me and challenged me. Warned me.

Terrified me.

And so I found myself, despite the chill I felt, despite the embarrassment of my appearance, beckoning to my managers who had been overseeing the assembly of the current stage props.

They both looked aghast at my soggy appearance. Monsieur Firmin's expression turned to one of disgust and I almost worried that he would toss me out of his opera house.

However, it was Monsieur André that spoke first.

"Mademoiselle Devoreaux! W-what happened to you?" he stammered in shock.

I opened my mouth to speak, but what came out was a body-wracking sob. I covered my face with my hands, feeling just as surprised as they looked. Alone in the foyer, I hadn't noticed that I was in such shock. The mix of relief and unbelief I felt at André's words finally broke within me and released the tears I had somehow held back until now.

He murmured some words that were meant to be calming and put a comforting arm around my shoulders. I was too distraught to be bothered much by his touch. However, it seemed to work, as I was instantly able to take a deep breath and regain control of myself.

Lowering my hands, I looked up into the face of Monsieur Firmin. The idea of looking at the man who still had his arm around me seemed awkward, so I kept my eyes on Firmin.

"I have a message for you," I told him. "For the managers."

When I didn't go on, Firmin, trying to conceal his annoyance, waved a hand and asked, "From whom?"

My voice was a whisper. "From the Opera Ghost."

André exchanged a glance with Firmin, who looked truly irritated at my reply, and released me from his hold.

"Mademoiselle - " Monsieur André began, but Firmin interrupted him.

"Mademoiselle Devoreaux, there are no such things as phantoms!" he said, matter-of-factly.

"But there is!" I heard myself saying. Unable to stop myself, I plowed on. "I saw him! He - he said to tell you that he is real. And he is! I've seen him! He expects his demands to be met." The two of them gave one another looks that clearly conveyed the notion that they thought I was crazy. Or worse, _in league_ with him.

"Please," I continued, "you must do as he says. If you don't, I believe he means every word of that letter. Something terrible will happen."

Frowning at me, Firmin gave me an appraising look. "Why are you all wet?"

The question caught me off-guard and I gaped like a fish at him. How could I explain? _Tell no one of what you saw or how you came to find me._ The Phantom's words kept my tongue still. Part of me screamed that it was necessary to tell them, so this madness could be stopped. Another part of me, was utterly and completely terrified. Again I saw those furious grey-green eyes. I had seen such a look in Benoit's eyes, on more than one occasion, and I was well aware of the punishment that awaited if I disobeyed.

In that instant, a blinding overwhelming fear overtook me and drowned out every other emotion. I knew what would happen if I did not heed the Phantom's warning.

He would kill me.

It was the same fear I felt when I looked into Benoit's aqua-colored eyes. But this was something more, something beyond what I had felt around Benoit. I had learned to listen, learned to know when the attack was likely to come. Here, in the Opera Populaire, I did not have a clue. I had heard how quietly the Phantom walked. The madman could strike from anywhere and I, for a change, would not hear it coming. Who knew how many tunnels ran through the walls of the opera house? And he could creep along them like some giant rat, only quieter. Much, much quieter. Like a...

Like a Phantom.

My breathing was shallow and I knew my eyes were wide as I neared a full-fledged bout of panic. I shook my head rapidly, backing away from them. If they did not believe me and they ran the show as they planned, ignoring the Phantom's orders... Would I be the target of his wrath for having failed to get them to believe me?

"Don't do it," I said hoarsely. "Don't do it, please."

"Everything will be fine, Mademoiselle," André smiled at me. "Nothing can go wrong because there are no such things as ghosts. Perhaps some rest would do you good?"

"A fine idea, indeed," Firmin stated, nodding his approval. "You worry about being in pique condition for the performance and let _us_ worry about all this ghost nonsense. Everything will be taken care of, I can assure you."

They led me away, toward the dormitory stairs, with Monsieur André telling me that he would send Madame Giry up to me.

Feeling numb, I only nodded and quickened my pace to prove I could walk on my own and did not need their help. As I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder. Messieurs Firmin and André were talking quietly to each other, making small gesticulations, and I got the feeling that they thought I had made everything up, as a cruel trick.

The feeling of being looked upon as a liar made my cheeks flush hot in embarrassment and indignity.

This was not a joke. The Phantom was real. He was real! I had met him face to face and he had spared me. This time. But the owners did not believe me at all. They thought it was all some game made up to frighten them. Just yesterday, if I had overheard that conversation instead of being a part of it, I would have agreed with them. I knew differently now. Now, I was truly afraid. I thought of their words to me, that everything would go just fine because there was no such thing as ghosts.

But now I knew better, for I had seen him with my own eyes.

I did not wait for André to find Madame Giry. Instead of going to the dormitory to change, I sought her out on my own, to tell her what I had just relayed to the managers. I was certain that she would believe me.

* * *

He was in a foul mood. He had not been - he had been in a euphoric place where the music was flowing like water through his veins, the very essence of his life moving him to write a glorious symphony. But then. She had appeared and everything had stopped. His whole magical world, come to an earth-shattering standstill by that Jacqueline Devoreaux.

It did not take him long to react however, with every fiber of his being crying, _Intruder! Intruder!_ There were no ballerinas that he had deemed strong enough to brave the dark hidden tunnels of the opera house. Not one. He had never worried about being found out by a dancer. But that young woman had braved not only the dark, but the cold and the wet. Foolish, impossible woman! What was she thinking? Why?

How? How?! How had she gotten all the way to his sanctum? Incredible!

He had had every intention of killing her - strangling every secret she had learned from her lips, so they could never be told to another. Throwing that lasso around her neck had been so easy, yet she still lived. He would never admit it, but he had been beyond surprised when she had thrown her hands up to protect herself, snagging the rope with her delicate wrists. How had she known? How?!

Madame Giry. It had to be. Ever since she had met the young Jacqueline she had been positively bothersome. It was possible that Madame Giry had helped the woman to find her way down here... Possible, but not likely. Giry herself had never been this far down. She was not so stupid to tempt him, tempt fate. She was aware of all the traps that awaited anyone unlucky enough to find themselves lost in his catacombs. So was that it then? The girl had just been lucky? She was very lucky indeed; he had not killed her, though he should have, though he had wanted to. But he had heard her sing and although Christine was better, he definitely recognized the beauty of her voice. For that reason, he had spared her. He could not bring himself to destroy something that reminded him so much of Christine. Could not bring himself to destroy such a beautiful gift.

But now she knew about him. Knew about his lair. Had caught him unaware, utterly vulnerable. At least he had been wearing his mask. A small mercy.

His temper exploded as he returned to his chamber. He went straight for the nearest object - a heavy brass candlestick - and, picking it up, hurled it across the room with a yell of frustration. A composer's bust, already chipped, was the next target. With a loud grunt and a violent sweep of his arm, the bust was knocked from its perch atop a mahogany table and crashed to the floor, shattering. The sound of it wreaking echoed throughout the lair. He stood, panting, staring distractedly at the shards of the bust.

At last deciding that his frantic destruction was doing no good, he calmed himself. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in, expelling it in a heavy sigh through his nose. He needed to figure out what to do about her. Would she try to come back down? He didn't think so. Would she deliver his message? From the expression she had given him, he thought she would. Would the owners listen to her? Undoubtedly not. They appeared to be imbeciles, seeing only Carlotta as their key singer.

Shaking his head, he pushed all thoughts of the curious dancer aside. He would deal with her in time. He had spared her hoping that her terror would keep her silent for now. He was not worried about her interference. The most important objective now was to show to the new managers how serious he was about Christine replacing Carlotta.

 _That_ was going to be amusing.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Hello lovelies! An apology to all my readers who have been very patiently waiting (or maybe you just gave up on me? !) for this chapter! Well, it is finally here. Hopefully I can keep the ball rolling now that I am back in the groove. Please, DO comment and let me know how you feel about this chapter; I only ask that you be fair. :)**

 **And yes, it was another long one...**


	9. Part Neuf

**A/N: Wowza. FINALLY the next chapter! I'm sorry everyone for such a long wait. :( An unexpectedly busy summer impacted my writing time (and also my motivation). Thank you to Destiny A for giving me the push I needed! And after such a ridiculous wait, hopefully it is enjoyable.**

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The meeting with Madame Giry did not go as I had anticipated. When she stepped out of her room and saw me in the tan and gray hallway, she gawked in surprise at my appearance. She had been in the process of closing the door to her room, but seemed to get stuck part-way through.

"Jacqueline!" she breathed and I couldn't tell if she was too angry for words or too shocked. Her eyes ran up and down the length of my body, assessing. I wondered what she was thinking behind those sharp green eyes. I stood before her with my arms at my sides, head slightly bowed, as a child would, preparing for a parent's scolding.

"I am sorry, Madame," I said to her. At her quizzical expression, I explained, "I thought that you had written the letters."

The color drained from her face. I think she thought my apology would have something to do with my visage. If so, she was wrong.

I continued on to say, "The notes from the Phantom — I thought they were just a fabrication of yours; some way for you to get some extra money. Or that it was a cruel hoax to play on the new managers!" Understanding passed across her features and she blinked away the confusion. She remained quiet while I kept on. Rambling seemed to be my new pastime.

"I know you and Meg and even Christine tried to tell me; to warn me! That I needed to be careful or the Phantom would come. I am so sorry that I did not believe you! I am so sorry that I thought so poorly of you! I know you would never —"

Here Madame Giry at last cut me off. "Jacqueline, what happened? What did you see?" The questions, though sternly spoken, were not harsh. There was a tone in her voice that I had not heard before and her face was taut, rigid with anxiety. I had never seen her like this before; startled, shocked, and certainly irritated, but this was something else and it unsettled me.

"I…" I started, uncertain of how to explain myself.

Putting her hands on my shoulders, drawing my gaze to her, Madame Giry looked me straight in the eye and said, "Tell me what happened, Jacqueline." Then she seemed to think better of it and ushered me into her room.

The room's entryway was dimly lit by wall sconces on either side of the door and I saw that we were in an antechamber. In the semidarkness I could just make out the various tables piled with books, a few exotic-looking tapestries, and photographs and posters everywhere. Around a corner, Madame Giry went straight to a gas lamp and adjusted it to increase our light. Her rust-colored walls, the chaise lounge, leather armchair, the warm glow of the lamp, and the myriad of oriental-print blankets, all gave the room a comfortable feel, but still I did not relax.

Madame Giry turned her attention to me. "Now," she said, "start from the beginning."

So I told her about my excursion into the labyrinthine tunnels. And I left nothing out.

/

"Please say something," I pleaded Madame Giry. My clothes were no longer dripping wet, but still soaked through. The damp tracks from my filthy ballet slippers were still evident, trailing behind me on the wooden floor. And Madame Giry stared wide-eyed at me as if I had grown another head.

Her mouth dropped open to speak, but no words came out. She raised her eyebrows, mouth closing and opening again, silently, absolutely at a loss for words. Shaking her head she finally managed to dislodge some words from her baffled tongue. "You are a very lucky girl."

I admit, it was not the reaction I had expected. I frowned.

"It is a miracle that you are still alive," she continued, haltingly, still unsure of what to say. "We had no idea where you went. If I had known where you were, I would have been twice as worried."

"Madame Giry," I began imploringly, "why is he—"

"You must change your clothes, Jacqueline," Madame Giry interrupted. "You will catch a sickness and you don't want that; you would miss _Il Muto_."

I did not appreciate her attempt to change the subject, even though my stomach sunk with the thought of missing out on being in the show. But I could not let her distract me.

"Who is he?" I asked. She ignored my question, pursing her lips in agitation. Grabbing my arm firmly, she opened the door and led me out of the room. Wordlessly, she steered me through the halls toward the staircase, to lead me up to the dormitory. Even that action did not dissuade me. I asked a barrage of questions, all of which she ignored. But I kept trying.

"Why does he live below the opera house? Why does he wear a mask?" I paused in my interrogation and Madame Giry heaved a sigh.

"You ask too many questions, Jacqueline," she said quietly. "Questions which should not be answered."

"And why not? Why do you hide him?" Perhaps it was the fact that I had stared death in the face and survived, that I asked this. I felt emboldened. I was stubbornly set on getting answers from her. But she was stubbornly set on not giving me any answers at all.

And so we arrived at the dormitory, where a mass of girls turned their attention to me as I was dragged up the stairs by Madame Giry. Despite my bold demeanor, I cast my gaze to the floorboards. How I could stare the Phantom in the eye, but not these girls, I'll never know. To me, I supposed, they seemed more cruel than he.

After a brief reprimand, Madame Giry once again told me to change out of my soggy clothing and assigned me to janitorial duty for three months as punishment. I could hardly believe what I was hearing, but as all eyes in the room were on us, I merely nodded in humility.

When I found the strength to raise my own gaze to meet that of Madame Giry's, I saw why I was being punished so harshly and finally I understood.

She was afraid.

I could read the emotion in her eyes; she knew the weight of the threat I had given to the managers. And she knew that the Phantom would see that threat carried out.

I nodded once more to her, in understanding this time. But as she turned away, her black dress swishing loudly against a bed frame, I wondered if I really did understand. It could have been that she was worried about the managers and the fact that they did not heed my words. But maybe she was worried about me and trying to keep me from meeting the Phantom again.

Because, maybe next time, he would not spare me.

/

 _Hannibal_ was my first show and, at the time, I did not think I could get more nervous. I was wrong. The nervousness I had felt then was nothing compared to what I felt as we all prepared to perform _Il Muto_.

Standing backstage, awaiting my cue, I was sweating already and my nervousness was setting off the sheep. A bad situation since I wouldn't be on-stage until Act III.

My job was to lead a live sheep onto the rear of the stage and do a few poses while the seasoned ballerinas danced at the front. At a certain point I was to lead her, along with other girls and other sheep, to center stage where the sheep were made to follow us in a few choreographed circles of sheep-ballet, then return to the back. A small role (and my only role in _Il Muto_ ), but I was content with it.

Although I tried to pay attention to the animal handler as he explained the rules of handling the sheep, I kept one eye on the shadows around me. I nodded at the appropriate times, but I barely heard a word he said. Eventually, he huffed an irritated remark and went to instruct another of the sheep-leaders.

Reciting some calming mantras, I attempted to relieve myself of the tension and a perverse sense of guilt I carried. I had done as the Phantom had asked; what more could he expect me to do?

The props and costumes of _Il Muto_ were all bright and the sets were light, supposedly invoking a feeling of mirth to the viewer, but when at last the show began, seeing La Carlotta in the lead role did nothing to persuade me that this night would run smoothly. Nevertheless, I tried very hard to enjoy the performance.

 _This faithless lady's bound for Hades… shame, shame, shame!_

The confidante's and fops' line made me wince. But then, so did Carlotta's singing.

"Serafimo, your disguise is perfect!" the Prima Donna sang in a grating voice to the pageboy, played by Christine. Off-stage our sound effects man made a knocking noise. Carlotta, in a caged-underskirt gown of pink and white and a white beehive wig, continued, "Why, who can this be?"

Piangi entered the scene dressed in an equally elaborate costume of spring green. I took a second to marvel at the red and pink ribbon-roses that embroidered his jacket and the amount of white frills hiding his neck and chest.

The colors were almost the same as my own costume. In fact, I even had my own fabric rose, stitched at the top of the bodice right between my breasts. A gauzy white fabric covered my breasts and hugged my arms in an off-the-shoulder design, fuschia and aqua ribbons trailing from the rose and sleeves. The rest of the bodice was a shimmering green; the fluffy skirt, white.

It was a beautiful dress, I thought, though I was uncomfortable baring so much of my shoulders to the world. I learned to never have skin revealed around Benoit.

Like an ill omen, a cool draft of air blew over me just then and I shivered. My hair did nothing to block the breeze because it had been pulled up into a ridiculous, if elaborate, up-do. Its wavy nature kept it from looking as fine as the other girls' hairdos, but it passed Madame Giry's inspection without comment so I counted it as acceptable.

The cool air caused me to frown and cast a nervous glance at the shadows again. Spying nothing suspicious, I forced my attention back to the opera, just in time to see Meg react to a staged grope from Piangi.

Despite my attitude, I smiled. The audience laughed.

 _My love, I'm called to England on affairs of state and must leave you with your new maid!_ Piangi sang. "Though I would happily take the maid with me!" he spoke directly to the audience, eliciting another laugh.

It was then Carlotta's turn to face the gleeful audience. "The old fool is leaving."

She and Piangi continued the scene and I winced as Carlotta's voice hit a high note that disagreed with my senses.

"Serafimo, away with this pretense!" Carlotta went on, "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!" I smiled at Christine's performance as she stripped off her tear-away skirts to reveal her pageboy outfit beneath. I was starting to enjoy myself and the Phantom's threat seemed to diminish in the face of all the laughter.

 _Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Ha ha ha ha ha!_

The song was lessening my fear. Smiling, I reached down to pat my sheep on her head. She grunted at me.

 _Poor fool, he doesn't know! Ho ho ho ho ho!_

Without warning, a voice boomed through the theatre and drowned out the performance. "DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?"

I felt the blood drain from my face and my breath caught in my throat. I had only heard it once before, but I knew that voice.

It was him.

The entire show had come to a stop and a collective gasp rose from the audience. Like everyone else, I looked around the theatre, trying to spot the one who had spoken. Unable to see him, I looked to my friends onstage, who appeared just as terrified as I felt.

"He's here," I heard Meg say. "The Phantom of the Opera."

Christine made a comment too quietly for me to hear, but Carlotta heard it. Regardless of the major interruption from the Phantom, she still felt it necessary to reprimand Christine.

"Your part is silent, little toad!" she spat at Christine. Then, realizing she was still in the public's eye, she gave one of her charming smiles and a nervous giggle, before strutting over to the side of the stage. One of her helpers came running with a glass bottle of throat spray.

"Why, why you spray on my chin all the time, eh?" Carlotta complained. As Carlotta came back to center stage, assuring the audience that everything was 'good', I glanced around again. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up now and I knew a disaster was about to happen. I trusted the Phantom's word on that.

However, the managers did nothing and Monsieur Reyer cued up the music to begin the song again. I shook my head and gripped the sheep's lead more tightly.

Carlotta began to sing.

 _Serafimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my UGH!_

The monstrous croak that escaped Carlotta's throat had everyone blinking and gasping in surprise. But it did not take long for the audience to start laughing. They continued to snicker as Carlotta tried yet again to sing the lines she had already sung. But when she tried to sing the laughter part all that came out was that horrible croaking.

The look of panic on her face almost had me feeling sorry for her. But then I remembered the terrible way she treated everyone and remembered how she had weaseled her way back into the opera cast. It was her fault this disaster was befalling us at all. So I allowed myself to laugh at her expense. Why not? It was funny. And I was not the only cast member laughing. By this time nearly everyone in the theatre was laughing.

Except the managers, of course. They had finally found their way from their viewing box down to the stage. After a panicky demand for the heavy red and gold curtains to be drawn, they stepped out in front to address the audience.

"Uh, ladies and gentlemen…" I could hear Monsieur Firmin speaking, his tone trying to convey a sense of control. "We apologize. Uh, the uh, performance will continue in ten minutes time, when the role of the countess will be played by Miss Daaé."

An arm darted through the divide in the curtains and hooked Christine's arm, dragging her out to the front. I barely had time to process what had just transpired, when I heard Monsieur André's tight voice demanding the ballet from tonight's opera.

With that unexpected request, the stage became a chaotic flurry of moving props and dashing actors. The two other girls leading sheep came over to usher me on.

"Come! We should all stay together," one named Marie said. I had little choice but to follow. The pandemonium put the poor sheep in a foul mood and none of them were very willing to obey. Nevertheless, they followed us onstage with a good dose of verbal encouragement and we girls took up our places at the back.

In what was perhaps the swiftest and most disorganized scene change I'd witnessed, the stage was finally set for the serene ballet portion of the show. I was still nervous and it had nothing to do with being in sight of the few thousand people who made up the audience. Remembering that I was expected to have a certain demeanor while on stage, I affected a smile as I gave a furtive glance around the auditorium, particularly Box 5 where I saw Vicomte de Chagny, watching us.

When it came time to lead our sheep in their own strange ballet, they wanted nothing to do with it. Or at least, mine didn't. She was partway through a circle when she deemed the stage a good spot to lie down. As I tried to haul her up from her kneeling position, I could hear the audience laughing. I felt my face flush in embarrassment, knowing the laughter was at my expense. Eventually I managed to drag her out of the way so the real dancers had room to perform.

Over the thudding of the ballerinas' footfalls and the orchestral music, I thought I heard something. A strange sound, but with a familiar edge to it. It sounded as though someone were running on the catwalks above. My need to see what was making the noise and my need to please Madame Giry and the managers with a steady performance warred within me. Telling myself that it would do no good to worry, I refused to look. Most likely a crew member, I told myself. After all, everyone was running backstage in the aftermath of Carlotta's sabotaged voice.

I watched the ballerinas dance, as I was supposed to. They danced on pointe and pirouetted and I was slightly mesmerized by the fluid, graceful movements as Giselle twirled and twirled and twirled...

Something big dropped in front of me, right in the center of the stage, but it didn't fall to the floor. It took only a fraction of a second to recognize Monsieur Buquet by his unkempt graying hair and a fraction longer to see the rope that kept him suspended. Startled, I fell flat on my rear end and screamed at the horror hanging before me. I was not alone. The cast, crew, and audience let out their own screams, gasps, and cries of shock, the ballerinas recoiling from the body as quick as they could. Wide-eyed I watched as Monsieur Buquet's inanimate body dropped heavily to the floor, like one of the backdrop weights. Everyone was gaping at the body lying center stage, but it had come from above. I looked up.

From the blackness of the catwalks above I saw that ghostly mask, empty black eyes staring down at me. For a moment I was frozen in fear. But when he spun away with a flourish of his great black cape, I panicked.

At some point I had dropped my sheep's lead rope. I did not even notice. There was nothing in my mind but a pure, blinding terror. A message had been sent to me and I received it quite clearly. The Phantom had killed Monsieur Buquet and he was coming for me next.

In the quickest, and probably most graceful move I'd ever done, I leapt to my feet.

And I ran.


	10. Part Dix

With the fear of a violent death hounding me, I ran. There was no thought involved, just an instinctual knowledge that I must go as far and as fast as I could. Running to the rooftop did not seem like the most brilliant idea, but nevertheless, in my unthinking flight I found myself flinging open the door and stepping out onto the stone terrace. Large statues of people in long tunics and winged horses loomed over me, but I paid them little attention. I threw myself behind the nearest one after hastily closing the door behind me.

Sinking down to a sitting position, I tried to catch my breath and calm myself. I was not there long before I heard someone coming. I made myself even smaller and had to scramble around the massive blocky statue base to keep myself hidden from their view.

"There is no Phantom of the Opera," a man's voice sang. It took a second for me to recognize the vicomte.

Christine's beautiful voice was instantly recognizable.

 _Raoul, I've been there! To his world of unending night To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness... darkness…_

Her statement should not have surprised me, thought it did, a little. Had I been right? Had Christine gone down the secret tunnel behind the mirror with the Phantom? Was that who had been in her room the night the vicomte had waited outside her door?

 _Raoul, I've seen him,_ she continued. _Can I ever forget that sight? Can I ever escape from that face so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in the darkness... darkness?_

In my hiding place, I frowned. I remembered his face; the half I could see. It had been handsome. But under the mask... Is that why he wore it? Because he was deformed? So many questions! I remained quiet and listened intently as Christine's tone changed from fear to adoration.

 _But his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound In that night there was music in my mind And through music my soul began to soar! And I heard as I'd never heard before_

At this I nearly leapt from my hiding place to run to her and tell her I agreed. Perhaps we could have had a conversation about how marvelous that music heard deep within the earth and deep within our souls had made us feel. I refrained from the sudden impulse as it was squelched beneath Vicomte de Chagny's quick reproval nearly cutting her off.

 _What you heard was a dream and nothing more_

Christine continued on, ignoring the vicomte's unbelief, walking away from him across the terrace.

 _Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore_

I moved around the statue to keep out of sight, peeking around the corner, and listening for the vicomte's whereabouts as I did. I needn't have worried. He was slowly walking up behind Christine. Softly, imploringly, he sang her name.

 _Christine, Christine._

The frigid night air seemed to echo his call and I listened hard, wondering if I was imagining things. Noticing Christine glancing at the opera house in confusion, I thought perhaps I was not wrong. I think she heard it too.

The vicomte (I had not missed Christine's familiar use of his given name) stood behind Christine and put his hands tenderly on her shoulders, pulled her back into him, and wrapped his arms around her. This was obviously an intimate moment I was witnessing and I felt very uncomfortable about it. The door was behind me and although it would be easy enough for me to reach, Christine chose that exact moment to turn around. Unless I wanted to risk being spied by either of them, I would have to stay put.

The vicomte held Christine's hand in his and, walking backward, led her closer to the wall of the opera house. Whether it was in their minds or not, they were taking a turn about the rooftop terrace. Certain I saw her drop something as they walked, I strained to see what it was, but it was too dark and I had to move around the statue again. This time as I did, I noticed the footprints and whorls from my dress in the layer of snow. I felt my eyes widen in horror. If they saw the disturbed snow they would surely find me out!

Across the terrace, the vicomte began to sing soothingly.

 _No more talk of darkness Forget these wide-eyed fears I'm here, nothing can harm you My words will warm and calm you Let me be your freedom Let daylight dry your tears I'm here, with you, beside you To guard you and to guide you_

He sang everything I wanted hear. Those words... I thought of the times when I had been with Benoit before our engagement. He had been sweet and gentle, encouraging even. A perfect partner. Now, listening to Vicomte de Chagny, I was tempted to tell Christine to run from him. That it was all a lie and she would regret ever having loved him. Another part of me knew that what he said was completely real. He truly loved her and honestly wanted her to be happy.

Christine's angelic singing hit me as it had that day she sang for the managers, moving me emotionally. I closed my eyes and swallowed back a sob.

 _Say you love me every waking moment Turn my head with talk of summertime Say you need me with you now and always Promise me that all you say is true That's all I ask of you_

Those last two lines she sang cleaved an already broken heart. If only I had asked Benoit to promise me that what he said was true, perhaps we would never have gotten engaged. Because there was no way on earth that it was true. But then, he would have only lied some more to keep us together. Bitter tears sprang to my eyes as I eavesdropped on the rest of their song, the vicomte continuing to convince her he would be her guardian.

 _Let me be your shelter Let me be your light You're safe, no one will find you Your fears are far behind you_

 _All I want is freedom A world with no more night And you always beside me To hold me and to hide me_

These last words, sung by Christine, were exactly what I wanted for myself. With a start, I realized she and I were the same. Not only similar in physical features, but our inner being as well. There was an impenetrable night all around us and both of us had a ghost from the past who haunted us every waking moment, unwilling to let us be free; to run laughing into the daylight. I could not understand specifically what was going on between Christine and this Phantom, but I understood enough. Understood that he was the cause of her fear. She and I had a bond that was strange and incomprehensible, but I believed there was a reason for it. I just did not know what.

 _Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime Let me lead you from your solitude Say you need me with you here, beside you Anywhere you go let me go too Christine, that's all I ask of you_

This was not merely a song to make Christine feel better. It was a proposal. One that I knew she would accept. She proved me right with her next stanza.

 _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime Say the word and I will follow you_

The vicomte joined her, their voices melding as one.

 _Share each day with me, each night, each morning_

 _Say you love me,_ Christine sang.

"You know I do," came the reply.

 _Love me, that's all I ask of you_

In the quiet that followed I knew that they were kissing, without even looking. The end of her red cape flashed past as he picked her up and spun her around. They were awfully close to me. Being caught now would be shamefully embarrassing! I scrambled to make sure I wasn't seen, sending a glare at the tracks I had made. Luckily for me, the two lovebirds had eyes only for each other and neither of them noticed.

 _Anywhere you go let me go too Love me, that's all I ask of you_

"I must go," Christine said. "They'll wonder where I am. Come with me, Raoul."

"Christine, I love you."

"Order your fine horses," she requested. "Be with them at the door."

"And soon you'll be beside me."

"You'll guard me and you'll guide me."

Her voice faded as they went back inside and they closed the door behind them. Sagging in relief at not being spotted, I let out a shaky sigh. My relief did not last long. A familiar feeling crept along my skin.

I was not alone.

/

Movement across the terrace caught my eye and I froze. Only my eyes moved as I scanned the rooftop for the other person.

Shadow-like and silent as death, the Phantom was hidden from my view by the large statues, but I knew he was there. I could have made it to the door. I am certain I could have, if I had found the courage to move. Instead, I waited to see what he would do. Once again I was surprised as a song drifted around the towering statues and found its way to my ears.

 _I gave you my music Made your song take wing And now, how you've repaid me Denied me and betrayed me He was bound to love you When he heard you sing Christine!_

Her name was a plea on his lips. I began to understand that he was in love with her.

A sudden knife of jealousy stabbed me in the stomach. So unexpected was the emotion that I did not know what to make of it at first. Immediately I felt guilty at being angry at Christine. It was not her fault that men tripped over themselves to get to her; that two men were now obviously smitten. But it seemed wholly unfair that she should have two men fighting for her (for I saw now that this was what it was all about) and the one man that should have loved me, despised me instead.

No matter how I felt about the situation in general, I felt pity for this man on the rooftop with me. He lived alone below the opera house, seemed to know Christine, yet she had never mentioned speaking with him. Nor had she mentioned that she had visited him in his catacomb lair. But then, neither had I. Not to Christine. As far as I knew, Madame Giry was the only to know of my venture into the catacombs.

The sounds of quiet weeping carried through the crisp winter air. Biting my lip in anticipation, I leaned forward ever so slowly, until I could see him. I could just barely see him between the statues, kneeling in the freshly fallen snow, one hand up to his face. In his hand he clutched a crimson rose; what Christine had dropped?

From somewhere within the opera house, Christine and Vicomte de Chagny began to sing again, their song echoing up through the corridors. It was every bit as beautiful as it had been moments ago and it seemed to have a calming effect on our Phantom. He ceased crying, his face relaxed, and he closed his eyes in repose.

However, as the song went on, his demeanor quickly changed — to anger. The rose he held was crushed by the black-gloved hand that held it, its petals falling to the snow like drops of blood. By the time he had finished destroying the flower, dropping the stem to the ground, he was shaking in rage. Leaping up, he ran across the terrace to the statue on the corner; winged angels bound together. Jumping onto the statue, he deftly climbed it until he stood between the wings of the highest angel.

As he climbed he sang a threat to the sky.

 _You will curse the day you did not do All that the Phantom asked of you!_

With his back to me I could have made an escape. I sat back against the statue and considered at least moving out of his view. He obviously hadn't seen me yet, so perhaps I could hide from him as I had hid from Christine and the vicomte.

I was too slow. When he turned around I was in full view. He drew up in surprise at first, but it was replaced quickly—much too quickly—by an all consuming anger. He came toward me, snarling; a raw animalistic reaction, seemingly as natural to him as to any wild beast.

 _Danger!_ my mind warned. _Danger! RUN!_ No matter how hard my head screamed my feet were leaden. I went nowhere.

A familiar feeling washed over me so strong that I was helpless to resist it. The way a bird always comes back to its nesting ground in summer, I found myself migrating back to my old self. I burst into tears. Above the booming of the heartbeat in my ears, I heard myself frantically repeating words that I had frequently used on Benoit. It had never helped.

"No, please, no! I- I didn't mean to! Please — Please don't!"

As usual, my pathetic whimpering did nothing to dissuade my assailant. He came toward me with such ferocity, such _fire_ burning in his eyes, I knew he would end my life. Finish what he had started in the catacombs.

The memory of his lasso around my neck sent a clean jolt of pure terror into me. Fueled by a deep primal need to survive, my body found some hidden inner strength and it took over, twisting my body away from him, although my traitorous feet still would not move forward. But I kept my eyes on him, never turning my face away.

I groped and clawed the statue behind me, using it to hoist myself upright.

"Please," I continued my pointless plea, practically a whisper, ignoring the fact that the frigid statue drained the heat from my body instantly. "Don't! Please. Stop."

The Phantom reached out to grab me by the neck and as he did his gaze fell from my face and settled on my back. He froze, mid-grasp.

"Please…" Tears rolled down my cheeks as I hugged the cold comfortless statue for support.

The Phantom just stood there with his hand outstretched, inches from my neck, staring. Ever so slowly, he lowered his hand to my bare shoulder and ran a finger diagonally down my back.

I stopped blubbering and blinked. It dawned on me that he was tracing the scar I had received months ago at the hands of Benoit. Even through his gloves I could feel the warmth from his fingers as he followed the scar down my chilled skin to the spot where it disappeared beneath my dress.

I didn't dare breathe lest I break him from his trance and his murderous ire return. Sensing me watching him, his gaze returned to my face. We stood like that for what seemed a long time, the Phantom and I, staring at one another. Searching each other's eyes for answers to questions we did not know we wanted to ask. Or were perhaps too afraid to.

He lifted his hand from my back and cautiously wiped at the tears upon my face. Such a caring — almost intimate — gesture that had me furrowing my brow in confusion.

Standing as close as he was, mere inches away, I could feel the angry heat from his body. Now that my panic had dissipated, I began to register the weather again. I was freezing. Killer or no, Phantom or not, all I wanted was for him to throw that cape around me and share his warmth.

A violent shiver tore through my body from head to toe as my body tried to warm itself up. Clamping my jaw tight to keep my teeth from chattering, I let go of the statue and wrapped my arms around myself.

The Phantom frowned and blinked, finally breaking free of his abstraction. I could see emotions at war within those pale orbs. Perhaps weighing the decision to be man or monster.

"You're cold." It was softly spoken, yet the unexpectedness of his voice made me flinch. Unsure if I could speak, I simply nodded. Realizing that I was still staring at him I dropped my gaze, embarrassed.

An uncomfortable silence settled over us for a torturous moment, allowing me time to realize I was standing on a rooftop with a man who had just murdered someone and who, just minutes ago, had tried to kill me… for a second time. I should have been terrified. I had been, when I thought he would kill me, but now that we were just standing here I felt more embarrassed than anything. The need to say something pressed on me, but what do you say to a murderer?

I was saved the trouble of starting a conversation when the door to the rooftop flew open.

Both the Phantom and I jerked our attention toward the arrival. But not before I noticed that his hands had been raised to his own throat. It was such a strange yet somehow familiar pose that the image stayed with me.

Madame Giry gaped at us from the doorway. The shocked expression on her face nearly made me laugh. A strange relief swept through me at her presence.

The Phantom immediately spun on his heel, cloak smacking me in the thigh as he did so. I opened my mouth to say something, but again what should I have said? 'Thank you for not killing me, Monsieur! It was awfully merciful of you!' No, I think not.

So instead I closed my mouth and turned to watch him flee, completely ignoring Madame Giry who had rushed to my side. A flash of his snow-white mask as he glanced back at us and then darkness.

A snowflake landed on my eyelashes. The heat of Madame Giry's hands on my shoulders was a searing reminder of my being inappropriately dressed for the weather.

"You must come back inside, Lina." Madame Giry's voice was commanding.

I nodded.

Steering me by the shoulders, she guided me back into the opera house.


	11. Part Onze

Madame Giry stayed with me, guiding me along, which I was grateful for because my head had suddenly become too heavy and my mind was cloudy. It wasn't until we reached Madame Giry's sitting room that my surroundings penetrated the haze in my head and I realized where we were. But I did not question her. As I sank down onto her chaise, she threw a blanket around my shoulders. She did not stop with one blanket, piling blanket after blanket on me and I closed my eyes, relishing the comfort. With a rustle of black fabric I knew she sat in the leather armchair across from me. Her gaze was almost tangible; I knew she was watching me.

Slowly I opened my eyes and met her gaze. For the second time, my actions had put her at a loss for words. Last time I had an apology to set loose to break the silence. This time I felt I was the one who deserved an apology. Although, perhaps, Madame Giry was not the one who should give it.

When Madame Giry finally did speak, it was not to deliver an apology nor any reprimand. Her gentle voice asked, "Are you all right, Jacqueline?"

Numbly, I nodded.

Opening my mouth to tell her he had been going to kill me, the words lodged in my throat. Merely the thought of that atrocious word brought an unexpected cry from me. An unearthly wail of unbelief and horror turning into uncontrollable bawling.

In an instant, Madame Giry was at my side with an arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders. She said soothing things, but just as my pleas for mercy had gone unheard by my assailants, so did her consolation fall on deaf ears. She got up to fetch me a handkerchief and, after offering it to me, sat in her armchair again.

The torrent of tears stopped eventually and I was able to speak.

"I didn't believe he was real. I didn't want to believe. But it's hard to deny when I'm staring straight into his eyes." My voice was thick and wet, hitching on my breathing as it tried to return to normal.

Madame Giry just stared at me, wide-eyed and worried.

"I was afraid," I continued, "when I was in the catacombs. I found his lair and I… I heard his music. So beautiful. I had to know where it came from. And I saw. But so did he. He came at me with a rope…" Closing my eyes, I swallowed. A tear rolled down my cheek, but this time I was in control. I shook my head, shaking the memory away.

"I would have died if I hadn't put my hands up. But tonight — I was more afraid. More terrified than when the rope was around my neck, because I knew what he could do. What he would do. And because," I gulped, "he was so angry!"

Quietly I added, "I know what that kind of anger can do."

Madame Giry gave me an understanding nod.

"Why is he here, Madame Giry?" I begged her to tell me. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"He is here because he has no where else to go," she said. While her answer was evasive to the details I wanted, I sensed it was not a lie.

"That makes two of us," I replied bitterly, turning my head away from her.

"Jacqueline," she said, drawing my attention back to her. "I hope that now you will be satisfied with the way we operate here. The Opera Ghost gets what he wishes and in return, we are left alone. Do not go looking for him. Stay out of his way and you will be… fine."

She sounded as though she may have been trying to convince herself of these facts, as much as trying to convince me. By this point, I was in no mood to interrogate her and she was anxious to return to the other girls who were no doubt also upset by Monsieur Buquet's death.

I took my leave of her company and she whisked herself away to help with whatever was going on with the opera now. Purposelessly, I ambled though hallways, staying clear of the people who were still working. Abstractly, I wondered what became of the production, but my thinking focused on the Phantom.

It was obvious to me now that Madame Giry and the Phantom knew each other. I did not know how and maybe it wasn't even important, but if anyone was going to have answers about who he really was and why he lived the way he did, it would be her. When Madame Giry had thrown open the door on the rooftop, I had looked away from the Phantom, but for a split second I saw his face again before he ran away. In his features I did not see the loathing of a stranger, but the pained expression of the avoidance of a friend. He had not wanted to talk to her and that was why he left.

As for what went on between the Phantom and Christine, I still could not connect. _I gave you my music, made your song take wing,_ he had said, but what did he mean by that? His song left me with the impression that he felt Christine owed him her love. Christine, obviously, did not feel the same. Whatever made him think such things?

 _You will curse the day you did not do_

 _All that the Phantom asked of you!_

Thinking about the threat he made sent chills through me. If he meant to do something to Christine he would have to work hard to achieve it. I felt myself harden inside. He had spared my life, but only barely. The first time, in his lair, had only been because he saw use for me, as a carrier pigeon. Benoit had done the same; used me to increase his standing in society. I would not let myself or anyone else be used like that again, no matter what the consequences.

I needed to warn Christine. I needed to tell the vicomte. Surely he could do more than I.

My pace increased as I realized they needed to be told immediately. I would tell Meg to keep an eye on Christine, too. Maybe I would even warn the managers and Madame Giry that the Phantom was planning something against Christine and possibly the vicomte. The Phantom would regret having used me, regret threatening my friends. Perhaps even regret sparing my life.

As I thought on it my stride slackened and I came to a stop. Tonight he had spared my life for a second time. For no apparent reason whatsoever. Memory of his fingertips caressing my scar sent a hot blush racing to my face… No, there was a reason. There had to be. Seeing the scar triggered something in him.

First making sure I was alone, I carefully pulled up the fabric over my left arm that served as a sleeve and observed the flesh beneath. A row of angry pink circles stared back at me. The day I received the first one was the day I learned not to scream. Screaming would only earn me more Benoit had said. I had been mortified at the welt the burning fire poker had left, but had quickly come to the notion that I must not tell anyone about what he had done to me. Oh, the lies I had told myself! He had done this deliberately, yet I told myself that it was an accident; that he did not mean to hurt me so badly. That he was teaching me a valuable lesson I should learn from.

I learned a lesson all right. I learned that some people are cruel and heartless without good cause. That sometimes good intentions cannot be a match for evil motives. And that there is always someone who loves you, even when you don't feel there is.

My grandfather pulled me through when I was at my lowest and he always believed there was a way out of my situation although, at the time, neither of us knew what it could be. There was a period, after he passed, when I was alone. But then I met Madame Giry. She showed me a love of sorts, taking pity on me, asking me to come live in the opera house, and then taking care of me when no one else would.

But who did the Phantom have to show love to him? Madame Giry? Certainly they knew each other, but she seemed more frightened of him than she ought, if they were friends. Christine was frightened of him, too, saying he was deformed. The mask covered that deformity no doubt. For the first time, I felt a stroke of pity for him. He had to wear a face mask, directly identifying him as an outcast; my dress was my mask.

Frowning, I lowered my sleeve back down over the burn scars. Luckily for me, the design of the costume had hidden the majority of my scars. I had nearly panicked when I saw the dress I was to wear, and how revealing it was. For once I was thankful that Benoit had been so careful where he chose to put the scars.

Continuing my walk, I heard jabbering from up ahead that could only have been a group of ballerinas. Around a corner I saw them. Huddled against the hallway wall was Giselle and her clique. Willing myself to be invisible, I tried sneaking past them, but failed. Even witnessing the death of Monsieur Buquet did not curb their crude attitudes.

"Oh, look who we have here, girls," Giselle said when she caught sight of me. The other two heads swiveled in my direction.

"Not surprising," one of them muttered rather loudly.

It was bait, I knew it, and yet I let myself be hooked anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone knows how you've bewitched Madame Giry into thinking you are her daughter. So it's not surprising to find you coming from the direction of her room."

Utterly perplexed I could only stare at her. The girl's wicked little smile spread, making her sharp features stand out.

"Oh, don't look so surprised Jacqueline," Giselle sneered. "Always following her around, trying to get on her good side—"

"Befriending her real daughter," interjected the third girl, a tall blonde.

"Meg befriended _me_ ," I replied hotly, "because, as I remember, nobody else would. Because you were all frightened that I was a witch." Apparently even if they still thought this, they were not afraid anymore. Briefly, I wished I was a witch. If I'd had the power, I would have turned them all into toads in a heartbeat. But then if I'd had the power, I would have turned Benoit into a toad first, ending my problems and therefore eliminating the need to be here now.

"We were not frightened," said the sharp featured girl. Eloise, her name was. "But who would want to be associated with a pariah?"

My temper was rising. "Not pariah enough to be tossed out of the theatre. I must be talented in some way, because Madame Giry has seen fit to keep me here."

Giselle glanced at her companions with a half-hidden smile and leaned in closer to me to emphasize her words as she spat them into my face.

"The only reason Madame Giry lets you stay is because she likes having a pet around. And dogs aren't allowed in the theatre." The other girls broke into laughter.

I wanted my sharp tongue to cut her — deeply — but for a change it failed me completely. Instead, she had cut me to the quick and there was no balm for this wound. I knew it was a lie, but a sliver of my low self-esteem wondered if it were true.

Tears drowned my vision before I could even think about not crying and I turned away from the laughing group of girls. I planned to walk away calmly, but I failed. My pace was too quick.

The other girls saw it as running away and their evil laughter doubled. Then I did run. Like some terrible nightmare, I ran through darkened hallways with watery tear-blinded vision and the echoes of their cackling haunting me in the distance.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Jacqueline and the ballerinas in the hallway, he was listening. He had fled the terrace with the intent to head straight to his lair. However, the unforeseen encounter on the rooftop with Miss Devoreaux had left him rattled and he found himself taking a different route, pausing often to clear his mind of the seething anger writhing within.

Madame Giry said that Jacqueline had been hurt as well, which he thought he had understood. Seeing that scar on her back alerted him to the fact that he did not fully comprehend what she meant. His deformity, no matter how unnatural it appeared, was something natural in its own right. It was something he had been born with — cursed with. Miss Devoreaux's scars, on the other hand, were inflicted. She was a beautiful young woman and to think that someone would mar that beauty intentionally was unfathomable. The big scar had drawn most of his attention, but he had noticed smaller ones that crisscrossed the skin low on her shoulder. They too were mostly hidden by her dress. He only wondered how long it would take before whoever did it would start working on her face.

Unwarranted anger surged and a want of vengeance surfaced. If ever he met the one who did it… well, that person should pray that day would never come.

Creeping through secret passages, he had heard the voices. When he recognized Jacqueline's voice, he stopped to listen. She sounded upset. Concentrating harder on the conversation, he was able to pick out the muffled words.

"…who would want to be associated with a pariah?" a snobby voice asked.

Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath before his anger got the better of him.

"Not pariah enough to be tossed out of the theatre," came Jacqueline's strong retort. "I must be talented in some way, because Madame Giry has seen fit to keep me here."

"The only reason Madame Giry lets you stay is because she likes having a pet around. And dogs aren't allowed in the theatre."

In the hideous laughter that followed and the thudding of footsteps, he knew Jacqueline had run. Narrowing his eyes, he changed his mind yet again. Keeping silent, he continued on down the passage.

He waited in a familiar corridor for only a few minutes before Madame Giry came past. To her credit she did not try to scream when he grabbed her, putting a gloved hand over her mouth. Realizing it was him, she spun around to look at him as he released her. The look she gave him implied she would have preferred a different method to get her attention. It did not effect him. He had something important to tell her.

"Does she still require a sponsor?" he asked without explanation.

The abruptness of the question had Madame Giry floundering for an answer. She did not know who he meant at first, but understood just before he spoke again.

"Jacqueline Devoreaux," he stated.

Madame Giry was nodding emphatically. "Yes, yes she does."

"Not any longer."

Madame Giry's breath caught as she sought the meaning of his statement.

"I will sponsor her. _Anonymously_." He stressed the last word, suddenly distrusting her loyalty. He wondered how much she had told Miss Devoreaux about him.

Her breath came out in a huge sigh of relief. He knew she was happy for Jacqueline, but he felt the smile on her face was ridiculously out of proportion. Did it really please her that much?

At a sound nearby, the two glanced down the hallway. Wordlessly, he turned to leave.

" _Merci,"_ Madame Giry whispered to his retreating back.

He did not respond. He could not. He was not sure how he felt about choosing to sponsor a ballerina. It was a rash decision, made in a moment of outrage. He hoped he would not be sorry he did it. A ballerina with a voice, he reminded himself. Training her was still an impossible issue, but now he considered it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up as he thought of the ballerinas who had verbally assaulted his new charge. They would regret it. He felt beholden to punish them for tormenting someone already scarred. Though he would not admit it to himself, he now felt a perverse sense of ownership; he would pay for the ballerina's lessons, she would do as he bade, and when she was attacked he would defend her. For whether either one of them liked it or not, he was now the sponsor of Miss Jacqueline Devoreaux.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 **A/N: Yay! Lina now has a sponsor! I think the more correct term may be 'subscriber', but for now I'll keep using sponsor so as not to confuse anyone with a sudden change of terms. Anywho, some of you readers should be happy that Lina finally has a secure position in the opera house! :) But do you think she'll be able to figure out who it is? And if she does, do you think she will be happy about it? Tell me your thoughts! I'd love to hear from you!**


	12. Part Douze

The next morning I arose from bed before the other ballerinas. I had barely slept and was tired of tossing, trying to return to sleep. Quickly I got dressed and crept downstairs. It was very early and even most of the crew was still sleeping.

I could have started my janitorial duties, but I did not feel like it. I just wanted time alone before everyone was bustling about. Padding quietly through the back rooms and the stage wing, I was back on the platform again. The emptiness of the auditorium called to me, though it should have been the last place I wanted to visit.

Indeed, as soon as I passed through the stage door onto the smooth maple-wood flooring, an image of Monsieur Buquet's corpse flashed across my vision. Halting, I took a half-step back before I caught myself. There was nothing and no one here now; no reason to run. Still, my breathing hitched and I gulped. The heavy red curtains were pulled shut so the view of the auditorium was not visible to me. Moving quietly onto the stage I scanned the bridges and catwalks above me for signs of movement in the dark. Seeing nothing suspicious, I shored up my courage and wiggled my way to the forestage.

Standing alone in the darkness I wondered what horrors the next opera might hold. Or if Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André would finally give in to the demands made by the madman in the labyrinth below.

The envy I felt for Christine was equally matched by the joy I would find in her becoming, and staying, the new diva. We would all fare much better listening to her sweet voice than Carlotta's astringent one. In this, the Phantom was not wrong. Struck by a sudden inspiration, I started singing. Low at first, getting louder as my confidence that I was alone grew. Imagining I was the diva singing for my audience, my voice carried far and wide into the auditorium, making me smile. Eventually, I heard people moving about and decided it was time for me to get on with the day's duties and pulled myself from my false limelight.

In spite of everything that had happened to me over the last few weeks, Madame Giry insisted that I join the lessons that day. I had very little interest in dance practice and certainly little interest in seeing Giselle and her friends today, but I did not have a choice. My interest piqued when Madame Giry told me that she had something exciting to tell me, but only if I turned in a good performance during practice.

And so we met at the barre for warm-ups and afterward the curtain was raised, and we were allowed to practice on the great stage.

I had to wait longer yet before she could tell me, because as soon as she finished practice with the newest dancers, she moved on to teach the more seasoned ballerinas. Wondering what the news could be, I changed out of my leotard and tights and into my everyday skirt and top of midnight blue. The morning seemed to drag on and as I helped to sweep the auditorium, my mind wandered to less menial thoughts.

Usually the only person to talk to me was Madame Giry, so I nearly jumped out of my skin when a masculine voice called out my name. The familiarity of it registered even as I turned to see who had spoken. I blinked in shock.

 _Oh no. How did he find me?_ I wondered.

Filled with a peculiar dread, I stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the man hurrying down the aisle toward me, hasty preparations to leave the house this morning evidenced by his tousled, greying, light brown hair.

My father. Somehow he had finally found me. But how?

He came at me, grinning from ear to ear, as if it was the most wonderful chance meeting he'd ever had. A part of me wanted to run to him; throw my arms around his neck and hug him as I once did; become his little girl again. Another part wanted to shy away from him as his betrayal of decency loomed over me.

Completely oblivious to my stupefied countenance, he threw his arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug as he said, "Jacqueline! Oh, my Jacqueline!" The relief that filled his speech seemed genuine enough and my guard dropped. I threw it back up instantly. Just because he was happy to see me did not mean that I should be happy to see him. He stepped back, his hands still grasping my shoulders as he smiled down at me.

I could not hide my surprise enough to mince words. With a touch of awe I asked, "How did you find me?"

"The performance. Last night," he said. Seeing my bewildered expression, he elaborated. "I came to the performance of _Il Muto_ last night. When that… horrible…" he trailed off searching for the right word, "—accident occurred I saw you fall. It drew my attention and I realized that I recognized you. Even with that outlandish hair style." He chuckled. I did not.

As I remained staring at him, his smile faded away and he dropped his hands to his sides.

"I've missed you, Jacqueline," he said, glancing away from me, suddenly serious. "It has been awfully lonely in the house since you left. Though Benoit comes every day to make sure I'm all right… and to see if there has been any progress in finding you." He turned his spectacled piercing grey eyes on me. This time it was my turn to look away, uncomfortable under that familiar gaze. I swallowed hard and awaited the scolding that usually accompanied that particular look.

"You are a missing person now, Jacqueline. Do you know that? Hm?"

Demurely, I shook my head.

"Yes, well, you are. That night I came home and found Benoit cleaning blood off his face. He had a horrible gash below his eye and his skin was starting to turn purple." My father's face screwed up in distaste. "It was quite awful to look at. But it healed nicely."

 _What a shame_ , I thought. His scars faded, while mine remained. When I made no inquiry about Benoit's well-being, my father plowed on.

"He was worried about you. He admitted that you two had been dancing and that he tripped on your dress, fell, and hit his head. Said that when he fell to the floor, you ran away screaming. He thought you must have seen the blood and panicked and he assumed at first that you had run for a doctor. But when you did not return we began to worry."

My mind was reeling with anger. I felt my chest rising and falling faster as my breathing quickened. But I heard myself ask with chilling calm, "Dancing?"

"Yes," my father replied. "There's no harm in that, Jacqueline. Certainly nothing inappropriate enough to warrant you running off the way you did."

I was too angry to say anything. Was too stunned that Benoit's lies held such sway over my father. After a silence that stretched on for too long, he spoke again.

"He misses you, too, Lina."

"I don't!" I choked out. My father's brow furrowed, confused. I swallowed and tried again. When I spoke my voice was aggravatingly choked by tears, but my words were clear enough. "I don't miss him. And he does not miss me! He only wants you to think that, because it is his fault that I ran."

"Whatever are you talking about? Always so theatrical! This seems to be the perfect place for you." He gestured broadly to encompass the whole auditorium.

"Good. Then here I shall stay."

This rejoinder seemed to baffle him and he stared at me, nonplussed, before saying more. "Don't be ridiculous, Jacqueline. You have a home and a family that loves you, why on earth stay here? When have you ever been interested in dancing? Do you know what is required of you if you stay? You would let men violate you rather than return to the purity of a Godly relationship! Or do you have an _abonné_ already? Is that why you won't come with me?" His lip curled back in disgust.

His pernicious questions burned me to the core. This was the man who had raised me since my mother died, sixteen years ago. How could he not know me? Again, I shook my head at him. Though the worst might have been insinuated, I only said, "I won't go back with you."

"Please, Jacqueline, be rational!" he replied, starting to lose his temper. "I have a daughter who has run away from her fiancé! It is disgraceful!"

"Is it not disgraceful to have a daughter that is beaten and bruised?" I shouted back at him. Furious tears stung my eyes. The dress I wore was modest and I could not pull up my sleeve to show him the scars there or I would have. And showing him any other scar was out of the question. "Is it not disgraceful to want her to go back to a cruel man who will only continue to treat her as refuse?"

"You said yes!" Now he was yelling, incredulous. "He asked you to marry him and you agreed! Did you not consider the ramifications when you said yes?"

Leave it to my father to take a situation in which I was the victim and make it my fault. Benoit had his manipulative hand in this, too, I reminded myself, but it did not lessen the hurt.

"I didn't know!" My temper matched his now.

"Well, you know now, but it's too late. Come back to the life you promised yourself to."

"He _hurts_ me, Papa!"

"Just come back with me, Jacqueline."

I drew back staring wide-eyed in perplexity at him. How had I lived with this man all my life and not seen the beast that he was? The _monster_ that he was.

"There is a man here," I began slowly, "who is a murderer. He is here to hide from the world. But it should be you hiding, because you are more of a monster than he."

A throat was cleared behind me and I glanced over my shoulder to see Madame Giry approaching. Beyond her, crowded in the auditorium doorway, were Meg and Christine and a few other girls, all watching me and my father with wide curious eyes. How long had they been listening? Wiping the tears from my face I turned away and brought my breathing and temper back under control.

"What is the trouble, Lina?" The sobriquet got my attention. While the girls had quickly latched onto calling me 'Lina', Madame Giry had remained politely professional in calling me by my given name Jacqueline. By calling me 'Lina' she was deliberately placing herself in a more familiar standing with me. She was making a point, I think, to my father. As if to say, 'Look here, we are good friends and I will take her side.'

"Nothing, Madame Giry," I lied, sniffing, resisting the urge to wipe my nose on my sleeve. I needed a handkerchief. Frequently, it seemed. I made a mental note to procure one as soon as was possible.

Madame Giry raised a thin eyebrow. "It certainly sounded like trouble."

"Ah, Lina and I were just discussing her current living situation," my father put in. Feigning politeness with a forced smile he said, "She has no business being here and I'm sorry if she imposed upon you, madame."

"It is not an imposition at all, monsieur," she replied. "Jacqueline has been a valuable asset to the company and with a fantastic voice she will go far if she remains here. Especially since she now has a gentleman to sponsor her."

My father and I exchanged glances, emotionally on opposite ends of the spectrum. Elated, I took Madame Giry's hand in both of mine. "Truly?" I asked.

" _Oui,_ " she said, nodding and smiling at me. I let loose a squeal of joy before throwing my arms around her in a rough hug. I ran to my friends in the doorway and we had a small celebration of hugs and encouragement. When I looked back, my father was still standing there, shoulders slightly slumped in a posture of defeat.

I walked over to him, passing Madame Giry who ushered the girls out so we might have a bit of privacy.

"You needn't worry about me here," I told my father boldly. "I'll be taken care of now." As soon as it left my lips I realized I had no idea if I actually would. My stomach clenched as the full weight of the announcement sunk in. Choosing not to let it worry me, lest my father catch on, I pushed the thought aside. I could have a sleepless night tonight instead.

With a heavy sigh he said, "I'm going to have to tell him you are here, Jacqueline."

I winced. "Why?"

He scoffed. "I cannot lie to him. He is your fiancé. He has a right to know where you are and what you are doing. And with whom." This last statement was said with disdain and he gave me a demoralizing look. I felt the heat of a blush rising to my face.

"Because I love you, I will give you time to think about it," he continued. "Time enough to realize the mistakes you are making. And if it should take too long for you to come to your senses, then I will tell Benoit. I'll let him try to talk some sense into you."

"Beat it into me, you mean," I replied bitterly, but feeling relief at being able to say it out loud.

"If that's what it takes," he said. Smoothing out his light grey jacket, he walked away. At a loss for words, all I could do was stare at him as he left.

An unexplainable tingle on the back of my neck informed me that I was being watched. I glanced around the auditorium but saw no one that would account for this. The only people about were the other janitors, one of which was shouting across the room to get busy now that the reunion with my father was over. I could only guess as to who was observing me from the shadows and I did not appreciate his interest in my painful affairs. I suppressed a shudder as the eerie sensation left me and I continued sweeping.

* * *

From the cavern below the Opera Populaire, he could have sworn that he heard Christine singing. He closed his eyes for a while, delighting in the rapturous melody. It was a different song — one he had not heard before.

Listening to it, he realized it was not Christine. Could that truly be Jacqueline? The night he promised Madame Giry he would hear the girl sing, he was moved by her song, but there was something new in her tone this morning. Something wondrous.

Letting out an explosive sigh, he abandoned the score he was composing, and grabbed his cape. He was just going to have to go up there and find out exactly what was going on. It could not have been a song from the next opera — he knew it too well. But he just could not place the song! He had to hear it better.

Unfortunately, by the time he reached the auditorium, the singer was gone, the stage empty and the curtain raised. Cursing under his breath, he climbed higher into the stage left fly tower to sit and ponder the new opera he was writing. It would be marvelous when he was finished. With Christine playing the lead role, it would be the best opera ever performed on that stage. Now he wondered if perhaps he should not have Jacqueline play a part as well. There really was no place for her… unless he cut Carlotta out of the picture entirely. He did not see a problem with that. Except that the idiotic theatre managers would think they needed Carlotta and to appease her they would just stick her in somewhere and mess up his beautiful work. This time it needed to be La Carlotta. Later, he could make sure Jacqueline had a role in a different opera.

The ballerinas came in to practice, dressed in their black leotards and pale pink leggings. Fearful one of them might look up and spot him, he started to get up to leave, but then he saw Christine. She was beautiful. Without making a conscious decision, he stayed to watch her dance. After a while, he noticed he was seeing two Christines. It astonished him. Narrowing his eyes at the two chorus girls on the stage below him, he unconsciously began comparing them. Surely, Christine was by far a better dancer; her moves graceful and rhythmic, almost hypnotic. To be fair, she had been training for far longer than Jacqueline. But their looks! How had he not noticed their similarities before now?

He sat and watched the entire practice while, in his head, he added music to their moves, his new opera forgotten. Even after every one of them had left, he sat staring at the stage. Now he felt that he should write another opera. But no! He had to stay focused on this one! Stay focused on Don Juan. He needed Christine and it seemed that the new plan he had formed was going to be the only way to get through to her. To get close to her.

Out in the auditorium someone shouted for Jacqueline. He frowned. It was a man and not a voice he recognized. He swung down to a position where he could see the newcomer, just on the other side of the orchestra pit, hugging Jacqueline. While the stranger was smiling broadly, he noticed that Jacqueline was not. With careful detachment, he watched the scene before him unfold.

"Is it not disgraceful to have a daughter that is beaten and bruised?" Jacqueline's words hurt him more than they should have. He thought of his own scars and felt that old familiar shame welling up inside. It was slightly out of context, but still.

Listening to the rest of the argument, it was all he could do to remain hidden; not to leap down and choke the man. Her father's accusation that she had agreed to marry a man that violently abused her seemed to crack the last of her composure.

"I didn't know!" she screamed at the man responsible for bringing her into this world; responsible for protecting her now.

"Well, you know now, but it's too late. Come back to the life you promised yourself to."

"He _hurts_ me, Papa!"

A searing anger burned him from within as he heard those words.

Now he understood Jacqueline Devoreaux.

He had been born with his flaws, while she was physically marred by another. But they were both emotionally scarred. To survive, he had run away and hid from the world, just as Jacqueline was doing now. Except the world she had been hiding from had found her. His grip on the catwalk rail tightened; imagining it was Monsieur Devoreaux's neck, he squeezed.

"Just come back with me, Jacqueline," was the man's reply.

Jacqueline leaned away from her father, shock evident on her face. When she spoke, it was not what he expected to hear. "There is a man here, who is a murderer. He is here to hide from the world. But it should be you hiding, because you are more of a monster than he."

The words hit him full force and he found he was having trouble breathing evenly. His face contorted, alternating between frowns of confusion and passive expressions of relief. Her words, meant to hurt the man she called father, had an unintentional opposite effect on him. The fact that she did not think him a monster was… monumental. But did she honestly believe it? Or was she only saying it to hurt the man who had so obviously betrayed her trust?

 _She said 'more of a monster.'_ _She still thinks you are a monster,_ he thought to himself. _Simply less of one than this man._ But something had changed inside. He could feel it, but not identify it. Somehow, she had done this to him.

His eavesdropping yielded further reward when Madame Giry told Jacqueline that she had a sponsor. The reaction she had both astonished and pleased him. Cocking his head to one side, he watched as Jacqueline rushed to her friends, just out of his view. Overwhelmed by his own conflicting emotions, he did not pay much attention to the rest of the conversation below, but waited until the man he wanted to kill was walking back up the aisle toward the exit, before he stood up. As though she sensed his presence, Jacqueline's head jerked back and forth, searching. He remained motionless until her eyes were averted and then he escaped back to his lair, where his partially written opera and his loneliness awaited him.

 **OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 **A/N: Soooo... what do you all think?**


	13. Part Treize

**A/N: Howdy everyone! Sorry it took SO long to post this chapter, but I had a little adventure in real life and wasn't at home for quite some time. And unfortunately, this site does not have a "hey I have an important message for you all!" ability... At least I don't think it does. (If it does, would somebody be so kind as to point it out to me? I'd really appreciate it, thanks) And the chapter turned out much shorter than I thought... Anywho, it is what it is and the next update may be next week (which is what I'm aiming for) or it may be the following week, so if you don't want to miss it be sure to check that little Follow Story box! ;)**

 **Once again, thank you to all you readers who have made it this far!**

 **OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The days passed slowly, with each consecutive day bringing a higher level of nervous anticipation. I waited for Benoit to come storming in, or sneaking up on me while I slept. Every sound made me jump and my friends grew worried about me, asking constantly about my well-being. Reassuring them that I was fine, we would go about our daily routines, as though all of it was normal.

It was normal for them, but I had to get used to the feeling. For so long now I had worried about being tossed out of the House that it felt strange to think that my place was finally secure. I had asked Madame Giry about my sponsor, who he was, but she merely shrugged and told me he wanted to remain anonymous. This made no sense to me, but I decided to be grateful for it. Anonymity meant that I was not likely to ever meet him and I was perfectly fine with that.

Christine and Meg finally could no longer withstand my paranoid nature and they cornered me after practice one day.

"Are you worried that your father will return?" Meg asked me after a couple minutes of pressing me to tell them what the matter was - and my denying that anything was wrong.

I looked at her and pressed my lips together, debating whether or not I should tell her the truth. She and Christine keenly watched me and I knew I had to tell them. Perhaps it would aid me in the end. It could mean two more sets of eyes keeping a lookout for Benoit.

I beckoned them to follow and we found a quiet spot in the empty rotonde des abonnés, where I was certain the other ballerinas would not find us. The large circular room was where the gentlemen in the audience could go to mingle; mostly with the ballerina they sponsored. With massive polished wooden pillars, a white embellished ceiling, and tall ornamental vases, it was exquisitely decorated, like every other room of the Opera Populaire.

None of the wall-mounted lamps were lit and not a one of us moved to light one. Engrossed in the darkness, we were impervious to eavesdropping, or so we felt. Taking a seat on the polished floor just inside the doorway, between a pillar and the wall, we shifted around to make a triangle shape, making sure that our knees touched each other. A kind of reassurance in the dark. Once we were all seated semi-comfortably, Meg and Christine turned their expectant gazes to me, a gesture more intuited than seen. It was too dark to make out anything more than Meg's eyes, glistening in the blackness from the little light that trickled into the room from the hall beyond.

They said nothing, but waited patiently for me to explain myself.

"Years ago, I met a man named Benoit Masse," I began, speaking softly. "He was handsome. I enjoyed his company and it seemed he enjoyed mine as well. We got along wonderfully and it did not take long before we began courting." I smiled faintly at the memory. I had been so happy, then. It honestly had been one of the most wonderful times in my life.

"But then we were engaged," I continued, the smile fading. "It was not long after that, he changed. He went from openly friendly to brooding. From caring to hostile. At first I thought it was something I had done, but when I commented on it, he assured me I had done nothing. But he also tried to tell me that he was not acting any different than he had before." I let out a sharp bitter laugh.

"He was behaving the exact opposite of everything I had fallen in love with. And then the beatings started." I swallowed back tears. Christine groped for my hand and finding it, held it, giving it a squeeze.

"That's why you flinch." Understanding colored Meg's statement and I nodded. Feeling foolish, I remembered she could not see me very well and I replied aloud, "Yes. Pain always accompanied anger. In some form or another."

"Was he angry often?" Christine asked. Her question, though sincere, was not what she wanted to ask. I knew what she was really asking.

"Oh, yes. All the time." A strangled sound left Meg's lips, then silence surrounded us as that information settled in their minds.

Breaking the quietude, Meg curiously asked, "How did you come to be here, Lina?"

Taking a deep breath, I told them.

/

It had been early evening when Benoit had come to visit. My father was still at home when Benoit arrived, but left only minutes later to attend dinner at a friend's last thing I had wanted to do was spend my evening alone with Benoit, but in order to keep up appearances I had no choice. Why I even cared about such things is... hard to explain. I'm not even sure if I myself know exactly why it mattered so much. My grandfather had tried to tell my father exactly what Benoit was and to get rid of him, so it wasn't really a secret in the household. And yet it was. Getting no support from my father had me continuing to hide what was done to me. I suppose I was embarrassed by it, though I now know I had no reason to be.

At any rate, I was able to excuse myself to my room without drawing too much suspicion from either male. Since Benoit's visit was not expected, I told them I was not fit for company and needed to make myself suitable. Half-heartedly I looked myself over in the mirror. I was able to hide away in my room for over an hour, mostly doing nothing, and feeling sick to my stomach. I was surprised Benoit had not disturbed me, ordering my presence downstairs. Eventually though, I steeled myself for whatever was to come and headed down to join him.

He was in my father's study, a drink in his hand. The predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched me enter had me looking at the floorboards as I crossed the room to perch on the edge of the sofa.

A decanter and an extra glass sat on an end-table beside him and he silently placed his own half-full glass next to them. I watched wordlessly as he poured golden liquid into the empty glass. Once it was full enough, he came to stand in front of me, smiling, offering me the drink.

"Join me for a drink?" he said, his silky voice smoothing over the underlying challenge.

I stared at the glass. I wasn't used to drinking what he had in that glass - and there was so much of it. He had to be insane to think I would drink all of that. Horrible thoughts gripped me as I realized what he might be trying to do. Was he truly trying to get me drunk? Visions of what he would do to me in that state made my stomach flip in revulsion. I hoped he could not hear my racing heart as I calmly replied, "No, thank you. I think I shall pass for now."

Inwardly congratulating myself for outstanding steadiness in opposing Benoit, I met his gaze. For a brief moment I thought I might get away with it. Thought manners might help. But although I had refused politely, it mattered not to Benoit. He had been offended anyway.

His smile faltered and a hint of confusion flashed across his face before anger flared in his sky blue eyes.

Terrifyingly calm, he said, "I would enjoy you sharing this drink with me."

It was folly to refuse him a second time and I knew it. Still, I could not bear to think of what would happen should I accept; how much worse it might be. I told him no again. Tensing, I waited for the blow.

Alcohol hit me right in the face as he threw the contents of the refused drink at me. I had expected such an action, but I had not anticipated him grabbing me by the hair and snarling as he flung me to the sofa. I shrieked in pain and surprise.

"You stupid bitch!" he ground out. "Do you not see how I am trying to offer you a reprieve from the pain?"

The mint-green sofa nearly tipped as I hit, pressing my hands to the back as I threw my hands out to catch myself. As startled as I was, I had had the presence of mind to spin around to a sitting position.

Losing all sense of calm, Benoit was yelling, "Now the pain you feel from the wounds you receive will all be on you! The drink was to dull the pain! You're such an ungrateful stupid woman! I should have known you would reject my help."

As soon as I had spun around, he was on top of me. There was nothing I could do, my reflexes too slow, as his fist connected with my ribs. My breath left me with an oomph and tears leaked from my eyes as my body crumpled in pain. Or tried to. Before I could recover, Benoit once again hauled me to my feet by my hair, drawing another shriek from me. He released my hair and I felt him grasp the back of my dress in both hands. My feet left the floor as, with a grunt, he hurled me across the room. Nearly bashing my nose on a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, I caught sight of something that gave me hope as I collapsed to the floor.

It was a solid pewter candlestick.

There was no time to think about it; Benoit was already coming toward me. As I stood I snatched the candlestick from the shelf. I barely took aim; barely had time. I threw it as hard as I could.

The candlestick made the most horrendous sound I'd ever heard as it struck him in the face, right beneath his left eye. Hands flying up, he covered his face and dropped to his knees. Blood trickled down the side of his face. Worse than anything was the sound that followed. Or rather the lack thereof. Right after the wretched sound of the candlestick hitting his face and then falling to the floor with a tremendously loud thump!, there was silence. Nothing to hear but the hammering of my heart in my chest. In that horrible quiet I started to panic.

I thought I might have killed him. Emotions, raw and biting, tore at me. Fear that I had killed a man warred alongside the fear that if he was not dead he would surely rise and exact vengeance on me for defying him. The latter felt more real to me and it spurred me into action. The whole thought process had taken mere fractions of a second and Benoit's knees had barely hit the floor when I bolted from the room.

I didn't look back. I didn't dare. If he was dead there was nothing I could do. If he was not, then I surely would be.

No longer in control of my responses, I ran. I had no plans to leave the house completely, but once my feet started moving they did not stop at the threshold. Out of instinctual habit more than anything, I pulled the door shut behind me before my feet carried me to freedom; away from fear and pain and a guilty conscience.

/

"I ran away and I never looked back," I concluded.

"But you have, Lina," Meg declared boldly. "You may not have looked back at the life you left behind, but you've been waiting for it to find you, looking over your shoulder ever since you arrived. Now that I know, I can see it. You're not as free from it as you think."

My mouth gaped open prepared to reply, but there were no words. I blinked and closed my mouth.

In my stunned silence, Christine squeezed my hand. Leaning closer to me she said, "You'll be safe here with us. Benoit cannot possibly get to you while we are all together."

Though she couldn't see me, I smiled at her sweetness. I did not say what I thought — did not state the terrifying truth.

We were not always together.

/

For the next few days, everything was wonderful. Telling my tale to my friends had been a release. I felt lighter — freer. The lightness of heart stayed with me and the foreboding of my father's visit faded, even with Giselle and her troupe continuing to harass me. That is, until she reached a new level of cruel.

"Is it true?" Giselle asked me one afternoon, during break. All of us dancers had remained in our positions at the barre, but had sat down to rest.

"Is what true?" I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

A haughty look settled on her face and I braced myself. "I heard a rumor that during Vicomte de Chagny's visit the other day he was seen talking to a ballerina... and that when he thought no one was looking, he took her into the storage room. Apparently, they were in there for quite a while. I heard that ballerina was you." She scoffed. "If you can even really be called a ballerina."

I could feel my ears turning pink at what the rumor insinuated, but I attempted to keep my face neutral as I said, "Are you sure you didn't just create that rumor?"

She started to scowl at me, caught herself, then said, her face equally neutral, "I thought the vicomte showed an extraordinary interest in Christine Daaé. Everyone has been talking about them."

Christine went still at this. Even Meg froze in place.

"I'm disgusted by you, Jacqueline. I thought Christine was your friend and this is how you treat her? Going behind her back to steal her lover's heart? I was right to avoid you from the start."

Rage flooded through me and then a spark of fear as I met Christine's gaze. In her eyes I saw confusion, hurt. I narrowed my eyes at her in reprimand. My voice was low as I said, "Don't you dare believe a word of it, Christine. You know how she hates me. Would say or do anything to hurt me."

Giselle gave an undignified snort. "You hurt yourself, Jacqueline. You waltz right into the theatre and into Madame Giry's arms to be her pet. As if you've been here all along. As if the rest of us haven't been working our tails off."

"So that's it," I interjected, "you're jealous."

"Jealous? Of you?" She gave a cruel little laugh, her friends around her snickering. "If you had any real talent I might be jealous."

"Stop it, Giselle," Meg threatened.

Giselle ignored her. To me she said, "And that little meeting you had with your father a few weeks back? That certainly didn't win you any friends."

"What do you mean?" Fool. I was a fool to ask.

"Well, you finally got a supporter, which is hard to believe in the first place. Whoever would find any promise in you? But then he insists on remaining anonymous? How suspicious. At first I thought maybe he was just embarrassed to be affiliated with your name. God knows I would be!"

As if she were part of a plan to bring me down, another girl listening in asked, "Why is that exactly?"

Giselle's expression was shocked, but I could tell it was feigned. "Well, didn't you hear about how Jacqueline came here?" When the other girl shook her head Giselle continued, "She ran away from her fiancé! She was all set to be married and then ran away. And when her father came and told her to come home she spit in his face. And now Christine has found happiness with the vicomte and Jacqueline is trying to break them apart. Disgraceful."

Everyone was silent now, listening.

"Not being associated with that kind of person is a good reason to remain anonymous, but I realize that it is not the real reason he hides his name. I know who he really is." She smiled smugly at me.

"Who is it?" Eloise asked, excitedly.

Giselle's eyebrows shot up as she looked at her friend. "Isn't it obvious? Her sponsor is Vicomte de Chagny."

Quaking with rage, unable to speak, I just sat there.

"Not only would it be unseemly to be associated with her character, but it would be scandalous as he has already declared an interest in Christine. If he wishes to keep his game running with two women he mustn't let one know about the other."

It was lucky for Giselle that so many of the girls were paying attention. Because both me and Meg leapt at her, to claw her eyes out. Girls jumped up and rushed to stop the blows they knew were coming. They were successful. Hands restrained us before we could lay a finger on her, though I struggled to get free to continue my assault.

"Let me at her!" I shrieked. I had never hated anyone before. But I hated Giselle. Hated that she tried to break up my friendship; hated that she spread lies; hated the satisfied look on her face when she realized I could not touch her. Others were talking to me, no doubt to try and calm me, but it was all an unintelligible murmur as an unending roaring filled my head.

Madame Giry chose right then to return from wherever she had gone for her own break and shouted, "Enough!" No one bothered to answer her as she asked what the problem was. After a moment, realizing nobody wished to explain, she commanded us back to our positions.

I was barely able to continue. Madame Giry kept glancing at me, obviously noting the change in my demeanor, but she said nothing.

Somehow I made it through the day and, at the end, still upset that Giselle had gotten under my skin so thoroughly, I sought solitude. I did not know exactly where I was going, only that I wished to be alone. Eventually I opened a door in front of me and stepped out to find myself on the rooftop. The same place I had had a run-in with the Phantom. Where he had spared my life for a second time. I almost wished he hadn't. To end my miserable existence would have been a blessing.

I had hoped having a sponsor would make everything better, but it didn't. Giselle still seemed intent on ruining me and I could not seem to find it within myself to rise above the insults and ignore her. Blinking up at the stars that were beginning to appear in the cold indigo sky, I prayed a change would come; that I could find a way to manage. Or at least a way to get Giselle to leave me alone.

However, I did not expect my prayers to be answered the very next morning.


	14. Part Quatorze

A blood-curdling scream cut through my dreams and ripped me from sleep. My eyes flew open and I bolted upright, instantly awake, goosebumps breaking out on my skin as I searched for the source of the screaming.

It was Giselle.

The first thing I thought was that someone else had died. Been killed. The red face of Monsieur Buquet flashed through my mind. But there was no body. No human body, at least.

As she flung the covers back to leap out of her bed something dark fell out from under the covers. Squinting at it I realized it was a rat. A dead rat.

Giselle's screaming turned hysterical. She could not get out of the bed fast enough. Eloise was immediately at her elbow, but didn't help much as she too screamed at the sight of the dead rodent. _Rodents._ For now that she had thrown the covers back, I could see that there had been several dead rats in the bed. And one (one that had most likely prompted the initial scream) was on her pillow.

Madame Giry was there in an instant. A hand flew to her mouth as she beheld the sight. A smattering of screams and gasps went up from the rest of the girls who had rushed over to see what the matter was.

Giselle remained standing, staring at her bed, still trying to scream through the hysterical sobs that now wracked her body. If I had not been so shocked I would have laughed at her.

"You did this, didn't you?"

At the accusing tone I lifted my eyes to observe dark-haired Catherine glaring at me from under her thick lashes.

"What?" I asked stupidly. "How could I have done this?" I gestured at the bed full of rats.

She continued to glare at me, but gave no answer.

Madame Giry was at a loss for words too, it seemed. She spoke soothingly to Giselle to calm her, but I noticed her giving me an uncertain glance out of the corner of her eye. Deciding it was best to skip practice for today, she bid everyone get dressed and suggested they go out and enjoy the city; get some fresh air. But before I could grab my clothes she called to me, asking me to follow her. Exchanging glances with Christine and Meg, I obeyed. We were only just out of earshot before Madame Giry spun around to confront me.

"Do you know how they got there?"

Her question, the intensity of her tone, threw me off balance and my mouth fumbled for an answer, while I raised my eyebrows.

"Tell me the truth, please," she said, softer this time.

"I had nothing to do with the rats, Madame Giry, I promise you."

She studied me a moment before letting out a heavy sigh. Looking upset and confused, she told me that she thought it best if I remained behind in the opera house. Numbly, I nodded. I did not have the heart to argue with her, though I did insist she let me help her clean up the rats. After all, I think I had prayed for them.

/

The rat situation, unbelievably, did seem to squelch Giselle's heartless attitude. During the next day's rehearsal she hardly said anything mean to me. She hardly said anything at all. However, this did not really relieve me, as I felt she was mulling over some evil plan to get revenge on me for the prank, even though I had not done it. If that happened to be the case, then I decided I would strike first.

When break-time came around I was positively aching to bring her even lower. When the right moment came, I laid my carefully timed trap.

Most of the girls, including myself, Meg, and Christine, had sat down in our places on the stage when Madame Giry called for a break. Giselle must have been in a stupor when she chose her place because she sat close to me; only two people between us. Other girls were chatting and laughing so I had to speak loud enough to be heard over them, yet quiet enough so as not to be heard by Madame Giry.

Leaning back on my hands, I became the picture of nonchalance. "I cannot believe it. Six rats in the bed! I wonder where they all came from."

My false musing had the desired effect. Giselle narrowed her eyes at me. Meg and Christine merely blinked at me, astonishment evident in their faces.

"Can't you count, Jacqueline?" Giselle sneered. "Or are you just playing dumb to throw the blame off? There were only five rats."

"Oh, no, I counted correctly," I said. "Five small ones and a really big one." I gave her a sly grin.

Meg let out a loud ha! before covering her mouth with her hand. Christine smiled and even a few of the girls immediately around us snickered. Giselle turned a marvelous shade of pink and when she pursed her lips, I thought about how she appeared ready to explode. My insult wasn't much; wasn't as horrible as some of the things she had said about me. But the fact that she did not instantly have a retort told me it got under her skin and that was good enough for me.

Before she could explode at me, Madame Giry bid us all rise to our feet. My grin grew even wider as my perfect timing worked just the way I had planned.

/

The following morning, Giselle did not scream. The rats had been cleared from her bed, the sheets changed. But another unexpected and unwanted surprise awaited her when she awoke.

Madame Giry came to wake us, shouting for us to move our lazy bones, when she suddenly stopped. I don't know about the other girls, but this made me wake up faster than her continued yelling. Curiously, I looked at her from under half-awake eyelids. She was staring at the foot of Giselle's bed. So was Giselle. For a moment, everyone was silent, a strange sort of reverent fear hanging in the air and then, with a shaky hand, Giselle reached out to pick up an envelope. Even from my bed I could see the giant red seal that held the flap closed; a grotesque red skull. Hesitantly, Giselle broke the seal and began to read the letter.

Seeing her turn red at my heckling had been fun. And if I'd known what words the letter contained, maybe I would have enjoyed watching her turn white too. But knowing who the letter came from only made me feel anxious as the color drained from Giselle's face. When she finished reading she looked up — directly at me. I could not read the emotions there, but it seemed to be a blend of many.

A lump formed in my stomach. Whatever was in that letter, it said something about me and I could not imagine what. This fact was confirmed when Madame Giry took the letter and read it for herself, giving me a furtive glance as she handed it back to Giselle. She did not pale, but instead looked rather smug. I did not dare ask what it said; was not sure I wanted to know. What about me could The Phantom possibly have to tell Giselle?

This time Madame Giry did not let Giselle or any others escape practice. It was our last practice before our first dress rehearsal and nobody was going to miss it — Phantom threats notwithstanding.

I was not sure whether to feel satisfied or not about the glum looks I continued getting from Giselle. I kept waiting for something dreadful to befall her all through our practice and all through dress rehearsal the next day. And all through the opera the following night.

But nothing happened.

I was not sure whether to feel satisfied about that either.

/

A few days later found me dusting the gilded statues in the Grand Foyer alongside five other cleaning staff members, who were either scrubbing the tan and black floor or wiping fingerprints from the thick, tan, marble banister. There was not a lot of conversation, which suited me; I was still musing over the letter given to Giselle and her attitude after receiving it.

She had not bothered me since then and, in fact, seemed to be avoiding me as best as she could. It disturbed me to think that the letter had anything to do with me and yet it brought a certain joy knowing that it was likely the reason she left me alone. I was supremely curious about the whole thing and wished I could get my hands on that letter. But Giselle had tucked it away quickly and would let no one look at it.

One set of front doors opened as I began wiping the statue base at the foot of the grand staircase. Expecting it to be one of the managers or the vicomte, I did a double take as the recognition sank in.

Benoit!

He had come. He had finally come for me. I stood transfixed to the spot, gaping at him. His smile as he caught sight of me was honey-sweet and utterly poisonous.

"Jacqueline," he said and both the honey and poison could be heard in his voice. He had taken all of three steps toward me when I dropped my rag and bolted.

Blinding terror, like I felt the night of _Il Muto_ , held me in its grasp once again; once again I ran without knowing where I was going. Past shocked staff, down through the auditorium, into the back rooms. A man had been carrying a freshly carved plaster prop — until I pushed him out of my way, knocking it from his hands. His curses at me were barely registered as blood pounded in my ears and I sought for a place to hide.

 _No,_ my conscience seemed to say, _find Meg and Christine!_ Despite the fact that there were plenty of people working around me, I did not feel safe here. These people did not know Benoit or what he would do to me. Christine's promise to protect me rang strong in my mind. I had to find her or Meg. So I kept running. And while logic would have suggested I run upstairs, I found myself looping around and ending up back in the dark auditorium. We had not yet begun to clean in there and none of the lights had been lit, although someone had propped open the entry doors, allowing pale, watery, daylight to filter in.

I ran up onto the stage and stopped. As if the act of suddenly halting had turned my legs to lead, I found I couldn't move again. The huge curtains had been drawn back and I stood center stage, as still as the statues I'd been dusting, staring at the open doors. _Move!_ I shrieked inwardly. _Move your legs!_

But instead of running I burst into tears.

"Well, _that_ was unnecessary."

I spun around to face the source of that smooth yet irritated voice.

I should have run, but a different kind of fear had taken over and I was frozen in place. Ironically, this is when running would have helped me. The last time I ran I put myself in danger, placing myself in a murderer's path; this time I should have ran to escape it.

"Such a shame," Benoit said, treading cautiously as though not to set me running again. He shook his head. "What a disgrace you've come to be, Lina." I hated hearing my name on his tongue. I wanted to yell at him and tell him never to say my name again. But a wracking sob was all that came out.

"So you will understand why I have to do it. I cannot allow you to go on like this." His gaze was full of pity as he came ever nearer. "And you were so pretty."

His hand shot out to grab me by the throat. I gasped and instinctively reached up to pull his hand away, but too late. Both of his strong hands wrapped around my neck and I tried to cry out, but could not as I started to choke. Desperately, I clawed at his hands, to loosen his grasp, but failed at that too.

My vision began to black out. He was going to choke me to death. I had escaped this fate once, but knew that this time there would be no escape. The man that had ruined my life, the same man who I had to blame (or thank) for making me run away to the opera house, would now end it. I knew this, yet still made a feeble attempt to pull his hands away. My lungs burned with an intense pain and I finally gave up and willed it to all be over now.

Air rushed into my lungs as Benoit's grip on my throat was unexpectedly removed. As painful as it had been suffocating, the sudden breath was almost as painful. Gasping huge gulps of air, I dropped to the stage with a loud _thump_. Putting my own hand to my throat to try and ease the pain, I realized I was free. Without looking up, I scuttled backwards from him as fast as I could. My vision returned to me, albeit a bit slowly, and I was able to make out the form of Benoit in the darkness even through the sea of tears pouring out of my eyes. Then I noticed the reason Benoit had released me. I couldn't see the rope around his neck very well, but I knew it was there. His hands at his throat told me that.

And there he stood. A Phantom, indeed! He was certainly solid enough, though the only thing I could make out was the solemn face of his white mask. But my eyes were drawn to the tortured face of Benoit.

His eyes bulged out of his head and even in the darkness I could see his face changing colors. It was so horrible I knew I should look away and I wanted to. Yet I gaped at him from my rumpled position on the floor until the stench of urine reached my nose and his gurgling ceased. When he had stilled completely the Phantom lowered his body to the floor, none too gently, I noticed.

All I could do was stare. After a few seconds, in which I'm sure the Phantom had been staring back at me, he reached down and loosened the noose from Benoit's neck. He let his head drop to the stage without care. The dull thud did not bother me.

At a noise from the entryway the Phantom whirled and all but vanished in the darkness. Someone called my name and the cleaners, bearing candles, appeared along with the managers. My flight through the opera house had obviously had more impact than I'd realized. A few women ran to me asking if I was all right, to which I could only shake my head. The rest stopped at the sight of Benoit's body lying unmoving on the floor. Several of them, including Monsieur André, looked like they might be sick. A couple men went to him, confirming that he was dead.

"What happened here?" Monsieur Firmin asked me, bewildered.

I tried to answer, but started coughing. When I was finally able to answer, my voice was rough. "He saved me."

Everyone exchanged confused glances.

"How…?" Monsieur André's preposterous question died on his lips as he peered at Benoit.

Vigorously I shook my head. "Not him. He tried to kill me. It was… the phantom. The Phantom saved my life by killing _him_." I motioned to Benoit. At this Firmin and André went positively rigid. Gasps went up from the others followed by a lot of whispering.

"Miss Devoreaux," Monsieur Firmin said starchily, "I thought we had discussed this alr—"

"We had, sir, but you are wrong," I interrupted.

Clearly upset by my statement, and looking slightly murderous himself, Firmin marched over to me and half-helped, half-dragged me to my feet.

"Do you know what I think, Miss Devoreaux?" he hissed in my ear as he pulled me to the side-stage. "I think you just killed a man in my theatre and the 'Phantom' has become a very convenient scape-goat for you. This is now the second death we will have to cover for!"

Monsieur André was frowning, nodding in agreement. "However will we cover this? He is not even a cast member!"

Firmin straightened, releasing the grip on my arm, and smoothed the front of his wine-colored jacket. "Bribes. We will have to bribe them all."

"Who?" asked Monsieur André.

"Whoever we need to." Firmin turned a glare my direction. "I have half a mind to throw you out of this opera house, Miss Devoreaux. If you can prove your worth here and stop all this Phantom nonsense we will allow you to stay. But I never want to hear the words 'Opera Ghost' or 'Phantom' from your mouth again. Do you understand?"

A look at Monsieur André and I saw that he shared Monsieur Firmin's sentiment. What could I do but agree?

"Good," said Firmin as I nodded.

Madame Giry appeared seconds later. After a brief scrutiny of Benoit's prone form, she embraced me tightly. Cradling my face in her hands, she asked if I was all right. After a good long cry, soothing words, and more hugs, I finally felt I could give her an answer.

"I don't honestly know."

 **OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 **A/N: This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but had some technical difficulties (again!). Sorry about that! Please all you awesome readers! DO tell me what you think! Is Giselle properly punished? Or will the Phantom take it even further? How will Benoit's death affect Lina? Thank you Followers and Favoriters for your support of my story :)**


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